


Thicker Than Blood

by irisbleufic



Series: Delicate, Dangerous, Obsessed [34]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Asexuality Spectrum, Dark Past, Demisexual Character, Demisexuality, Disability, Do not translate without permission or copy to another site/app, Ensemble Cast, Established Relationship, F/F, Flashbacks, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hallucinations, Humor, Intersex Character, Jerome Valeska Lives, Leslie Thompkins and Lucius Fox Kick Medical/Science Ass, M/M, Memories, Neurodiversity, Nonbinary Character, Other, POV Multiple, POV Outsider, Sibling Rivalry, Siblings, Trans Character, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-11-07 19:57:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 22,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: “You can’t bring that in,” Bruce said, nodding at the shotgun propped over Jerome’s shoulder.“What?” Jerome asked, hoping his feigned bewilderment was convincing. “I brought it along in case shooting clay pigeons is on the agenda. Isn’t that what rich folksdo?”Alfred grasped the shotgun’s barrel and yanked it away from Jerome. “Not these ones, I’m afraid.”“Five,” Bruce sighed, eyeing him warily up and down, “I don’t want to have to confiscate—”“You’re a buzz-kill,” Five said, but he drew the Ladysmith and pulled the knives from his boots.





	1. Like Water

Five woke with a gasp—panting, overheated, disoriented. He kicked off the covers and twisted onto his side, reaching fretfully toward Jerome’s side of the bed. It wasn’t normal, this vague impression of waking up alone. Nowadays, he found it unsettling.

“_Shhh_, princess,” Jerome said, taking Five’s hand, rubbing the back of it. “Just a dream.”

Nodding, Five could only respond with a blink. Spots swam in his vision, obscuring Jerome’s face. He shivered, running his fingers along Jerome’s scars, seeking an anchor. Nothing felt real, not even the smooth, familiar patterns beneath his fingertips.

“Hot in here,” Five complained, finding his mouth dry as Jerome kissed his palm. “Hungry.”

“S’been nice finally havin’ the place to ourselves, huh,” Jerome said, sitting up, brushing Five’s hair back off his forehead. “Lots of movies to watch, so hopefully it’ll take us a while to get bored.” He tried to frown, but it never seemed to work, never seemed in earnest. “How ’bout you cool off while I make pancakes?”

Five closed his eyes, nodding again. “I’m still tired,” he managed thickly, “but. _Mmm_. Yeah.”

Jerome bent and kissed him on the lips, cool and comforting. “Need to talk about that dream?”

“Dunno,” Five whispered, keeping his eyes closed. Even though he’d kicked off the covers, even though he was only wearing boxers and a thin tee, his body was burning. He’d never felt like this before.

“Who do I need to kill,” Jerome murmured, stroking Five’s cheek as Five opened his eyes, “to make sure my baby sleeps tight?”

“They’re already dead,” Five said, blinking away garbled, residual memories of Ethel Peabody, Hugo Strange, and Kathryn Monroe. “So…nobody.”

“Yet,” Jerome said, fondly _booping_ Five’s nose. “Tryin’ on those clothes tired you out.”

_Everything’s tired me out_, Five thought, finding that it took less energy to keep nodding.

“It was nice of Jeri to stick around a couple days,” Jerome said. “Maybe we should send a card.”

Five laughed, but the sound emerged as a dry, hiccupping rasp. “Sure. Hey, I think…” He tried to swallow, but choked instead. “Need some water.”

Jerome was gone and back in what felt like a blink. He helped Five tip his head up just enough to take a few gulps, and then set the glass aside. He fluffed the pillow painstakingly around Five’s ears.

“Thanks,” Five said, catching Jerome’s hands. He swallowed to make sure that he could, finding it difficult to keep his eyes open. “Sorry I’m so…”

“I’m surprised you haven’t been asleep since Brucie dumped us off here,” said Jerome. “Rest.”

Five felt unsettled, but he couldn’t say why. No thought would remain in his head long enough for him to examine it. Images of Indian Hill, of everything he could remember about his years there, slid by like water.

“Jerome,” Five said quietly, reaching up to touch Jerome’s face with both hands this time, “I…”

The mattress shook as Jerome rose and left Five with a kiss to his cheek. “Breakfast comin’ up.”

_Don’t want you to go_, Five thought, letting his eyes fall shut. _Don’t want to forget._

_You’ve been gone a while,_ Kathryn said, everywhere and nowhere. _Why come back?_

“Come back where?” Five muttered, tossing against the pillow and the sheets. They were damp.

_Gotham_, Kathryn replied. _I thought you said this city didn’t want either of you._

“Didn’t,” Five gasped, clawing at the pillowcase, nauseous, “but now there’s...people. Jeri.”

_Five, don’t be a fool,_ Kathryn sighed. _Don’t mistake their amusement for genuine care._

“You wouldn’t know,” Five said accusingly, shocked back to lucidity by tingling in his scalp, his forehead, his cheeks. He sat up, taking in the pale brightness of the room. “You’re not here.”

_You might not be for long_, Kathryn said, her voice coming from the vicinity of the bathroom. _You’ve overstayed your welcome by quite a while_.

Five slid out of bed and followed the sound of Kathryn’s scornful laughter, the tingling resolving itself into ominous pressure all throughout the mask of his face. _No no no_. Last thing he needed.

The bathroom was empty. Five wavered where he stood, the marble tile cold beneath his toes; even the soles of his feet were scorching. He leaned heavily on the counter, trying to catch his breath.

“You’re a liar,” Five said to his reflection, startled by how sharply the chaotic spill of his hair threw his features into relief. He didn’t look _exactly_ like Bruce anymore, but—_who_? Did that person exist?

“Babe,” Jerome shouted down the hall, “what’s that? This won’t take too much longer, promise!”

_You think a monster like that is capable of love?_ Kathryn asked. _Of loving you?_

“Yes,” Five insisted, pressing an accusing index finger against his reflection’s nose. “I’m one, too.”

“Did somebody call?” Jerome asked, interrupting himself with a clatter. “Who’re you talking to?”

_I’ll admit he’s far more considerate than the media led us to believe_, Kathryn remarked.

“You don’t know shit,” Five said, bracing himself more heavily on the counter. “You don’t know him. You don’t know _me_. You never did.”

“Princess, if you’re talkin’ to me, I can’t make out a word,” Jerome went on. Something sizzled.

_Oh, Five_, Strange sighed. _What did we say about that wild imagination of yours?_

“Not to let it run away with me,” Five mumbled, dizziness flaring intolerably. “But you’re…”

_Dead?_ Strange supplied, laughing, and Kathryn joined in. _Matter of perspective_.

“No,” Five said stubbornly, running the tap so he could soak his hands under it. “That’s fact.”

_Your lover’s already died once_, Kathryn warned. _Who’s to say he won’t again?_

“Husband,” Five hissed, splashing his face haphazardly, turning off the water. “Don’t forget.”

_Are you reminding yourself_, Strange pressed, with false gentleness, _or reminding us?_

“Prick,” Five said, making a grab for the hand-towel. He buried his face in it, breathing hard.

“Okay, listen,” Jerome went on, all the kitchen-noises coming to a halt, “if you’re not gonna…”

_There’s something wrong with you, Five,_ said Kathryn, sadly. _It was only a matter of time._

“No,” Five replied, shaking his head into the towel as the tingling returned. “No no _no_.”

_This_, Strange lamented, with wistful finality, _is the reason we thought it best to make you forget._

Five snapped his head up, eyes open wide. He blinked at the vivid red streaks on the towel.

_You could only hope to run so far_, Kathryn told him. _Be grateful for what moments you have left._

Shakily, Five balled the towel in on itself until the stains no longer showed. He threw it away.

“This isn’t real,” he said under his breath, making his unsteady way to the kitchen. “None of this—”

Jerome looked up from setting a pair of plates on the center island, grinning. “Great timing.”

Five nodded numbly, sniffing hard at the phantom sensation of wetness in his nostrils. “Yep.”

Helping Five into the stool on his side of the island, Jerome pointed at the pancakes. “Enough?”

“Sure,” Five said, instinctively grasping his napkin. He rattled the silverware out of it, dropped it in his lap, and picked up his fork. “Two’s fine.”

“Well, there’s a couple more if it isn’t,” Jerome said hesitating at Five’s side. “Sure you’re okay?”

“I was talking to myself,” Five said, sniffing again. He viciously cut into one of the pancakes.

Jerome stayed put, rubbing Five’s back consolingly. “I wouldn’t worry,” he said. “We all do.”

“It just—” Five took a single syrup-drenched bite, finding it tasted like nothing “—was weird.”

“Dreams do that,” Jerome insisted, sliding an arm around him. “I used to talk in my sleep.”

“You still talk in your sleep,” Five said around a second bite, increasingly agitated. “This…”

“Something wrong with it?” Jerome asked, trying not to sound ashamed. “We can order in.”

Five shook his head helplessly, setting down the fork. Static filled his throat, his nostrils, the mask of his face, his mind. He hunched forward, bracing both palms against the counter, wracked by a fierce, sudden fit of chills.

“Think I have a fever,” he said, turning his head as heat dripped onto the backs of his hands.

“Wait, what?” Jerome gasped, tearing the napkin out of Five’s lap. “No no no, precious—_no_!”


	2. Like Hell

Jeri hated the fact that being a small business owner meant setting an alarm for nine in the morning after being up until three, but needs must.

Those few days she’d spent with the boys—_her_ boys, odd to think it—had been truly restful.

Five hadn’t gotten to be a kid, hadn’t even gotten to be a teenager. Watching him assert the self he’d been lucky enough to explore while he worked at the Foxglove was a weird joy. She didn’t know if that was how parents felt watching it happen, but an old broad could dream.

Kids hadn’t really been on the cards, not with the kind of home Jeri had come from. She related to Jerome a lot harder than she let on. The marks of what he’d been through weren’t the ones on his face. She’d decided go easier on him, especially given how good he was with Five.

They filled the gaps in each other’s lives, all three of them. Imperfectly, maybe, but so what.

Having a sort of pen-pal in Zelda Kohler helped. They’d taken to emailing each other instead of writing letters, and Jeri had been sending updates down to the minute. She’d sent a digital photo of Five on the penthouse balcony while he was wearing that snazzy black dress.

Zelda had written back: _I’m so glad the newlyweds are safe_. Jeri had done a double-take at that. When a delivery from Bruce via the concierge had arrived later that afternoon, though, she’d understood. Shotgun wedding in Vegas, emphasis on the shotgun.

Five had accepted another hug and asked her if she could get them a frame for the certificate.

It had been hard to leave them alone, but it was clear that Jerome was better at running a household than she’d given him credit for. Okay, she should’ve known. That was what kids like them ended up doing for family like the ones they’d had—murder included.

Jeri still caught herself justifying what she’d done, reminding herself she’d saved one grandparent by offing the other. Grandma in one piece, Granddad in several. She’d been seventeen and ended up in juvie. Maybe she should tell Jerome that story sometime.

Jeri’s parents hadn’t spoken to her for twenty years. When they finally did, it was to ask if she wanted to inherit a no-account piece of ground in Pennsylvania with a cabin on it.

Sure, Jeri had thought. It paid to have a safe house when you were in her line of work. And then, she’d fudged the paperwork so it technically _wasn’t_ in Pennsylvania.

Twelve years since she’d inherited the damn thing, and she hadn’t even used it except to shelter a pair of reckless ne’er-do-wells that reminded her too much of her younger self. So it went.

That’s what Jeri thought about while she showered. She was still thinking about it as she poured herself a mug of crappy instant coffee and unfolded that morning’s _Gotham Gazette_.

Damn, but Bruce had bitten off more than he could chew. Marrying one twin and micro-managing the other hardly seemed like a sound life choice, but Jeri couldn’t say much given she’d assented to playing a part in the latter.

Actually, she didn’t even know if Bruce and Jeremiah had tied the knot like their more reckless counterparts. They were private about everything except Wayne Enterprises.

When Jeri’s cell phone started to ring, she picked it up. Assigning Dylan’s _Jokerman_ to Jerome’s burner-phone number had been a glib suggestion, but he’d said _Ha, do it, I like the song_.

“Hey-o, J,” Jeri said, tossing the newspaper across the table. “You guys getting bored already?”

Instead of a coherent greeting in return, there was a scuffle on the end of the line that resulted in the phone being dropped—not hard enough for it to have hit the floor, but still _hard_.

Jerome’s voice, then, curtly frantic: “Five, you’ve gotta—Five, gimme the fucking phone—”

“Jeri, you’ve gotta calm _him_ down,” Five said on the end of the line, voice scratchy.

“Okie-doke, one at a time,” Jeri said, attempting to curb her nervous chuckle. “Put J on?”

Jerome’s breathing down the line as he took control of the phone sounded all over the place.

“I need you to remember the thing Five said the night you saved our asses,” he said, manic.

“The thing about not judging him, or the thing about dying?” Jeri said, realizing a beat too late that this was a lot more serious than Five had let on. “Oh Jesus. What happened?”

“Uh, one of his nosebleeds,” said Jerome, with a near-hysterical laugh. He sounded like the scared young man he still was, somewhere under that swagger. “He’s running a temp, too. It’s high, like—_high_ high, like I don’t remember how bad a hundred and three actually is, but I’m guessing pretty fucking bad?” Five protested in the background, and there was some more scrabbling over the phone. “He doesn’t think anything’s wrong. Jeri, he’s fucking _delirious_. I can’t get him in the bathtub, I can’t even—”

“Lukewarm, not cold,” Jeri said firmly, swallowing her instinctive panic. “You’re doing great. If you can find apple cider vinegar anywhere in those fancy-schmancy cupboards, put some in the water, got it? Grandma swore by that shit for bringing down a fever. About the nosebleed, uh, you probably know how to stop that, pressure and tilt his head back?”

Five muttered something in the background, rapid and agitated. There was some more rustling.

“Stopped before I could,” Jerome said, struggling to keep Five from stealing the phone again.

“Hey, would you put Five on a sec,” Jeri said. “He’s clearly got somethin’ to say. So do I.”

“See what I mean?” Five said plaintively, his raw tone shot through with worry. “S’really bad.”

“Miss Thing, listen up,” Jeri said sternly. “You need to just let him tell me what’s going on over there, understand? You’ve got a—a slight fever. That happens after you travel sometimes.”

“Oh,” Five said vaguely, pausing for a few seconds. “Never traveled before. Don’t think I…”

“Can you let me talk to J again?” Jeri coaxed. “I’m gonna calm him down and get some help.”

“Thank you,” Five said, the tremor in his voice finally breaking. “I’m…kind of scared, I…”

Jeri closed her eyes, pressing her fingers into her temples. Oh, why this. Why anything. _Why_.

Jerome was on the line. She could tell by the breathing, the telltale catch in his scarred throat.

“You’ve gotta call Bruce right now,” Jeri said. “Get him to send whatever fancy doctor he has.”

“Like _hell_!” Jerome spat, instantly furious. “Think I don’t know they’d haul him in and start experimenting—”

“I don’t want to go!” Five shrieked, so piercing and sudden Jeri almost dropped her phone.

“So, about that,” Jerome said, soberly threatening, “send your mob sawbones or…whatever.”

Jeri bit the inside of her lower lip and stared at the tabletop. Tapped it until she remembered.

“There’s, uh…there’s somebody,” she said, “but you’ve gotta be cool if I bring her there, J.”

“Don’t understand,” Jerome said, still sharp and menacing. “You’ll just have to spell it out.”

“Have you, like, at all been paying attention to the news?” Jeri asked him. “The Narrows?”

“Uh, no, can’t say I have,” Jerome snapped, sarcastic. “Been out of town a while, remember?”

“Might be as dangerous as having Bruce send somebody,” Jeri warned. “Doc doesn’t like you.”

Jerome dropped the phone and murmured something to Five, over and over, too low to parse.

“What’s she talking about?” Five asked shakily. “I don’t want to see the doctor today, I—”

Jeri had to shut out the litany of Five’s terrified pleas, which were heartbreakingly succinct. God, that bastard Strange would never know how lucky he was to be dead. She kind of wished she could bring him back just to drive the point home.

Jerome would’ve helped her, too, she was sure of it, never mind the reason he was breathing.

“J, you’ve gotta get Five in the tub lickety-split,” Jeri insisted. “You’ve gotta tell him I said so.”

“Guess Jimbo’s old flame moved down in the world,” Jerome said, steady on the line. “Get her.”


	3. Deal-Breaker

Jerome set his phone aside and stroked Five’s flushed, tear-streaked face. He must’ve been this terrified at some earlier point in his life.

“I don’t have to go for tests, right?” Five hiccupped, quieting under Jerome’s touch. “_Right_?”

“Right,” Jerome said, smiling shakily. As long as Five smiled back, that meant he was selling it. He took the water from the nightstand and coaxed Five to drink the rest. “Good.”

“Jerome,” Five whispered, eyelids fluttering, “it’s gonna be okay.” He didn’t fight as Jerome wrangled him out of his clothes. “Jeri promised.”

Excruciating, to realize that, moment to moment, Five wasn’t sure where he was. Two places at once—here, with Jerome; there, down in the dust and dark of Indian Hill.

“Can you do me a favor, princess?” asked Jerome, as conversationally as he could manage. “Jeri says we’ll both feel better if I can get you in the bath. How’s that sound?”

“Nice,” Five said sleepily, eyes closing the rest of the way. “Don’t think I…can walk, though.”

“Don’t need to,” Jerome said reassuringly, gathering Five up with a grunt. “Gonna carry you.”

Five was dead weight in Jerome’s arms, as if he’d fainted or fallen asleep. Better that way.

At a loss, Jerome propped him against the bathroom wall and tore through the cupboard. He put a bunch of towels down in the tub, settled Five on them, and covered him with another.

“S’not water,” Five mumbled, shivering and clinging to the towel as Jerome turned on the taps.

“They’ll soak up the water,” Jerome explained. “Cool you down, and keep you warm, too.”

“Sounds fake, but okay,” Five mumbled, in another moment of clarity before subsiding again.

“That’s silly, sweet pea,” Jerome said, throat tightening as he rose. “I’ll be right here,” he lied.

Searching the kitchen cupboards was easier said than done, because the kitchen was huge. There was even a pantry, which was just his fucking luck. He found white-wine and red-wine vinegar, and even six kinds of balsamic, but there was nothing resembling cider vinegar.

There was just about every painkiller known to man in the bathroom cupboard, but Five was out cold now. Jerome didn’t think he could get Five to swallow anything else.

The hand-towel was balled up in the trash, so Jerome pulled it out. Bloodstained, fresh enough that it was still bright. So there’d been some before Five got to the table.

“Didn’t…think it was real,” Five slurred, as if he could tell by sound what Jerome had retrieved.

Jerome tossed the towel back in the trash, biting his tongue so hard he tasted iron. “_Shhh_.”

Five didn’t answer, head lolling to one side as water finally buoyed some strands of his hair.

Jerome turned off the water and pressed the soaked towel more firmly over him. Keeping Five as gently immobilized as he could manage seemed to be helping. He used the edge of the soaked towel to wipe the telltale traces from beneath Five’s nostrils.

The sight of blood hadn’t affected Jerome in years. Context was the deal-breaker, go figure.

He knelt with his arms over the side of the tub, robe-sleeves rolled up, tucking Five’s hair behind his ear. At least Five was resting quiet, his breathing slow and steady.

After about twenty minutes, the sound of Jerome’s phone echoed off the tile. Five twitched.

“I’m gonna be knocking in a few minutes,” said Jeri, before Jerome could greet her. “Ready?”

“Haven’t seen our guest since I woke up on her autopsy table,” Jerome griped, “so not really.”

“Hey, she says you guys had a civil chat, all things considered,” Jeri said lightly. “Maybe I was wrong about the whole she-doesn’t-like-you thing.”

When Jerome answered the door, Lee Thompkins gave him a nod. “You’re looking…well.”

“No time for catch-up, Doc,” Jerome muttered, turning on his heel. He didn’t even give Jeri the chance to say hello, leading them to the bathroom.

“Credit where it’s due,” Lee said, dropping to a crouch next to the tub. “Not so much the towels.” She opened her bag and took out a device Jerome wasn’t sure about. “Thermometer.”

“I’m crazy, not stupid,” Jerome said, winding his fingers in the pockets of his robe as Lee peeled back the towel covering Five and passed the device from Five’s temple down to his jaw. “We’ve got history, so I’m gonna let the thing where you were helping Penguin hunt me down slide.”

“His temp’s dangerously high,” Lee said, studying the thermometer’s display when it beeped. “Jeri tried to give me the run-down on where he came from. I have no experience with this kind of DNA meddling, but it helps that he was…born. I need to see his files.”

“We have those,” Jerome said, folding his arms. The impulse to prevent Lee from touching Five further was strong, but the injection she was giving him looked important.

Jeri squeezed Jerome’s shoulders fleetingly, and then left the room. “I’ll go get ’em,” she said.

“Acetaminophen,” Lee said, emptying the syringe into Five’s upper arm. “You didn’t get anything down him, right?”

“Water,” Jerome said, leaning heavily against the wall, staring at Five’s motionless features.

“That’s better than nothing,” Lee said, recapping the syringe and putting it away. “Are you…”

“All right?” Jerome supplied, satisfied to see her cringe at the awkwardness. “Subjective. As far as answering, hard pass.” He crouched down beside her, leaning close. “You were there when I woke up, so that makes you sorta my chosen one or whatever, doesn’t it? Mad science moves in mysterious ways. Dark and brooding’s a better look on you, FYI.” 

“Cut the flattery,” Lee said. “I can stabilize him and help you get him comfortable, but I’m going to tell it like it is. You need Bruce’s resources.”

“Not willing to risk it,” Jerome said, wagging a finger at her. “You know what they do to us.”

Recognition flickered across Lee’s features. “Did it myself, granted, but…yes. They made the virus.”

“Let me guess,” Jerome sighed, rolling his eyes to mask his despair. “They made the antidote, too.”

Lee nodded, lowering her eyes as Jeri came back with Five’s folders. “I’ll need some time.”

“You don’t have forever,” Jerome said, taking the files from Jeri. He handed them over.

While Lee left the room to go read, Jeri crouched next to Jerome. “It woulda scared me, too.”

“No kidding,” Jerome deadpanned, tugging the towel back up to cover Five. He ran some more warm water when Five shuddered.

“Five’s not gonna die,” Jeri said with stubborn reassurance, “because you won’t let him.”

“Must’ve found some faith,” Jerome scoffed, pulse stuttering as Five’s fingers curled twitchily around his wrist. “Hang in there, precious.”

“_Cold_,” Five whimpered, squeezing Jerome’s hand.

“I know,” Jerome agreed. “I remember. It’s like that.”

Five shook even harder, thrashing beneath the towel.

“We should get him outta there,” Jeri said. “He’s shot full of Tylenol now anyhow.”

Jerome fetched a dry towel while Jeri hit the drain and peeled the sodden one off Five. She got him into a sitting position so Jerome could wring out his hair and wrap him.

Jeri followed anxiously behind while Jerome carried Five to bed. She hovered while Jerome wrapped Five in his robe, settled him on his side, and brushed out his hair.

Jerome was busy pulling it back in a loose braid when Lee peered cautiously into the room.

“This is beyond anything I’m capable of treating,” she said, pointing at the folder she had open against her chest. “I’m going to have to consult someone else whether you like it or not. Also, if I’m reading this right...” Her jaw worked soundlessly. “Chromosomally speaking...”

“If it ain’t relevant to your diagnosis, I wouldn’t go there,” Jeri cautioned.

“You’re _with_ him?” Lee blurted, staring as Jerome finished Five’s hair.

“Judgy,” Jerome said, tucking Five under the covers. “Bet Jimbo loved that.”

“Look, I’m thrilled he has somebody who doesn’t count it against him!” Lee shot back. “As long as I’m using the right pronouns, we’re golden.”

Jerome waved both women out and lay down beside Five.

“Oh,” Five whispered thinly, not opening his eyes. “Hi.”

“Hey, you,” Jerome whispered back, holding him tight.


	4. Due Diligence

Fish stubbed out her Sobranie and stared at the smattering of ash in Oswald’s tacky carnival-glass tray. Any day she could work from home, no need for putting out fires, was a gift. A better one than the damn secondhand ashtray, anyhow.

Edward had banished it when the kid started getting on his case and Oswald’s about their indulgences. Long gone, Oswald’s ill-fated, high-stress days at city hall. The wine, though—there was nothing for it.

Martín was a smarter cookie than either of his fathers, but Fish knew better than to tell her godson any such thing. He was already a better Ed-minder than the driver and the bodyguard put together, and the last thing anyone needed was Oswald’s heir putting on airs.

Fish lit another cigarette and surveyed what she could see of the city. Dreary as hell, almost November. Two days till All Hallows’ Eve.

Zsasz texted about some Docklands bullshit that he’d put down without a fuss. Olga’s feisty niece had pulled her weight in the raid.

_Unless shit hits the fan_, Fish texted back, blowing smoke, _I don’t need to hear it._

_Jeez, boss,_ Zsasz responded. _I was gonna invite you along for ice cream, too._

Sofia walked in barefoot, robe half-undone, and sprawled in the armchair across from Fish.

“I would’ve kicked you out by now,” Fish said, deleting the text-thread, “if not for the view.”

Sofia pretended to pout. “Are we going to pretend this didn’t happen? Can’t stand the thought of Daddy calling you up with the shovel talk?”

“Insolent,” Fish said warningly, but without malice. “Get over here and make yourself useful.” She hauled Sofia into her lap when she got close enough. “Your Daddy had _me_ dealing that spiel for him before you were even born. He wouldn’t dare.”

Sofia shrugged, plucking the Sobranie out of Fish’s hand. She took a puff and made a face at it.

“That’s not what I meant by useful,” Fish said, admiring Sofia’s kiss-stung décolletage anyway.

“Olga getting you the expensive Russian shit didn’t pay off, did it?” Sofia took another drag.

Fish snatched back the cigarette, puffing snidely. “Thought you’d like the black wrapper.”

Sofia continued to smirk at her, serene and poised. “I like black better _under_ the wrapper.”

Fish grabbed Sofia’s chin and dragged her down nose to nose. “Quite the hussy, aren’t you?”

“I keep my enemies close and my colleagues even closer,” Sofia said coyly, wrenching free.

“Perish the _thought_ of what you do to your foes if this is what you do to your friends.”

“Are you going to tell Oswald? Or is this one going to stay off the books where it belongs?”

“You say _this one_ like maybe you’ve done more,” Fish goaded. “Like maybe I know.”

“No,” Sofia sighed, put-upon as she stole the cigarette a second time. “I tried with the redhead.”

“You had better mean Caroline, the driver,” Fish replied, “because Ivy, the gardener? Too young for you by far, and entirely off-limits.”

“Of course I meant the driver, _God_,” Sofia huffed. “Her girlfriend looked ready to shoot.”

“Viola Aragon,” Fish corrected scathingly. “They call her Vee. Learn their names already.”

“I know Olga,” Sofia said mock-defensively. “And her niece, pretty Sveta with the crossbow.”

“You don’t touch that one, either,” Fish said, grabbing Sofia’s chin again, “or the cigs dry up.”

“You must want more than a one-night stand,” Sofia sniffed, retreating back to the other chair.

Fish’s phone rang as Sofia sat finishing up the cigarette. Fish rolled her eyes and answered.

“Doc Thompkins, isn’t it a bit early in the day for your neck of the woods to go pear-shaped?”

“This has nothing to do with the Narrows,” Lee said, alarmingly out-of-breath. “It’s urgent.”

“I’m giving you five minutes,” Fish replied, “and then I get back to my game of tit for tat.”

Lee groaned. “You _didn’t_. Know what? Not my circus. But I can tell you that’s what we’ll have on our hands if you don’t help me figure this out.”

Fish sat forward in her chair, eyes narrowed at a too-curious Sofia. “Do you mean to tell me…”

“Back in the city, both of them,” Lee said, her heels hitting pavement at a swift clip. “They might’ve eluded Bruce and Jeremiah back in the summer, when they chased that lead in PA,” she panted, finally slowing down. “But this time, Bruce knows. He’s harboring them.”

“Oswald’ll be fit to burst,” Fish said. “You leave him to me. Was there something else?”

“The one everyone said was a clone, Five,” Lee ventured. “You knew him at Indian Hill?”

“514A. I used to see him when Peabody and the crew wheeled him unconscious past my cell. Otherwise, I talked to him for two minutes the night I broke us all out. Bright kid. Polite. I was sorry to hear he took up with the naughty twin. Nothing good can come of that.”

“Funny thing is,” Lee said, “Jerome’s the best thing that ever happened to him. Jeri, the owner at Celestial Garden, called with an emergency at the Wayne penthouse in Midtown. That’s where Bruce is hiding them. Five’s suffering nosebleeds and a high fever. I have the files he and Jerome salvaged, but I’ll be damned if I know how to use that information to treat him. Nosebleeds alone would’ve been problematic, but fever means infection. His immune system enhancements are failing. Jerome is—” she exhaled, lost for words “—disconsolate.”

Fish closed her eyes and tapped the side of her neck, in sudden, sickened anguish. She’d done her best for them, every last soul she’d saved from Indian Hill, but they’d scattered. She hadn’t had time to learn their names, their stories, the horrors they'd faced.

“Strange, for all that he succeeded in stabilizing me,” Fish lamented, “is dead. No help left.”

“Sounds like you’re in a tough spot, Ms. Mooney,” Sofia said, loudly enough for Lee to hear.

“Don’t pay the peanut gallery any mind,” Fish sighed. “This set-dressing can keep a secret.”

“Oh my God,” said Lee, the laughter in her voice proof that she feared nothing. “You _did_.”

“She pays me in second-rate Soviet smokes,” Sofia drawled, pitching the butt on Fish’s rug.

“Word of advice,” said Fish. “Don’t take Ms. Falcone up on her offer, should she make you one.”

“Been there, done that,” Lee replied. “She bitched because I wouldn’t let her smoke indoors.”

“I can see that my best efforts at keeping the ranks in line have been for naught,” Fish sighed.

“There, my five minutes are up,” Lee said. “I did my due diligence, as a courtesy to you and in a patient’s best interests. I guess calling Fox is the next step—with Penguin’s blessing by proxy, of course?”

There was what love could do to a stubborn, self-made survivor like Oswald, and then there was what it could do to a fearless outcast carrying more anguish and rage than the whole rogues’ gallery put together. That smile was a veneer of the most insidious kind. There was what Oswald had done to hold a silly creature like Ed, and then there was what Jerome might do to be held by an equal.

The only token that could replace a brother lost was a lover gained, especially if said brother had been won over by the enemy. Jeremiah had gone to Bruce willingly, as spoils of war. Five, by contrast, was nobody’s docile prize. Not anymore. 

Disconsolate. Jerome Valeska, _disconsolate_. Fish did the math and didn’t like it one bit, but killing one or the other—or the pair of them—had dire repercussions no matter how you hashed it. Lee’s territory would turn on her if that Jeri character, a self-styled prophet, had anything to say about it. Jerome, once slain and canonized, with Gotham’s own Lady Death at his side?

“You do whatever it takes,” Fish hissed, dismissing Sofia, “to keep that changeling alive.”


	5. Impasse

Bruce hadn’t heard anything from Jeri _or_ his penthouse guests in nearly four days.

Jeremiah hadn’t spoken for several hours after Bruce had returned from escorting Jeri with the clothing delivery and giving Jerome the security badges. By dinnertime, Jeremiah had been conversational again. Eager to make amends, Bruce had taken him to bed.

In two years of knowing each other, they’d spent half that time as declared partners. Propriety in professional settings wasn’t difficult to maintain, but their fervor in private hadn’t diminished. Jeremiah’s endearingly tentative advances had grown as forward as Bruce’s had been from the start.

Jeremiah’s fashion choices had grown increasingly more distinctive, not least because he’d realized how devastatingly attractive Bruce found the results. Lipstick-stains on Bruce’s skin weren’t uncommon now that Jeremiah was experimenting with cosmetics.

Whatever Five was discovering in parallel, Bruce couldn’t begrudge Jerome’s encouragement.

Bruce wondered about the scars Five had so brazenly shown off when Bruce had asked if Jerome was hurting him. Five’s verbal retort had indicated an unsurprising degree of reciprocal sado-masochism. However, nearly everything Bruce had seen since their reappearance in Gotham was indicative of tenderness and devotion equal to what he and Jeremiah shared.

Bruce knew these tendencies were by no means mutually exclusive, and from a degree of firsthand experience. Jeremiah had gotten better about asking for what he wanted. Sometimes, that entailed practices that Bruce had to research exhaustively before he was willing to give them a try.

Jeremiah was willing to cede control to a terrifying degree, and Bruce had been startled to learn how much he loved pushing those boundaries.

While they hadn’t given each other any lasting scars as of yet, the marks often lasted for days. Jeremiah wore them as badges of honor, as proof of belonging. Bruce wore them as penance, as reminders not to take his power for granted.

The unspoken point of tension was that Bruce had granted Jerome and Five the ability to come and go as they pleased. To the GCPD and city hall, they were no longer wanted individuals—although Oswald, Edward, Fish, and their handful of associates begged to differ.

Actually, Bruce couldn’t be sure what Ed really thought. His opinions tended to run counter to Oswald’s when compelling new data became available—and if what Bruce knew wasn’t compelling by Ed’s standards, then there was no hope by anyone else’s.

Bruce was staring at his phone, and had been for at least ten minutes, Ed’s number at the ready.

Jeremiah, seemingly having snuck into the library, bent over the sofa and kissed Bruce’s neck.

Tossing his phone on the coffee table, Bruce reached back and stroked Jeremiah’s hair. They hadn’t been apart much since the diner encounter.

“Hate to see you brood, but it suits you,” Jeremiah sighed, his breath warm against Bruce’s ear. “Alfred wants to know where to set out lunch.”

“Here’s fine,” Bruce said, tugging at Jeremiah until he toppled over and onto the adjacent cushion. “I’m not that hungry, but it shouldn’t stop you.”

“Won’t you give it a rest?” Jeremiah implored, righting himself beside Bruce. “I’m not angry.”

“You’re not pleased, either,” Bruce said, retrieving his phone. He texted Alfred their location.

Jeremiah inclined his head, spellbinding eyes askance. “No, but what else could we have done?”

“We could have done what we promised Oswald we wouldn’t hesitate to do. Back at the diner.”

“Seems the original lapse in judgment was mine, wasn’t it? I said we couldn’t leave them there.”

Bruce hit _SEND_ and slid his arm around Jeremiah, coaxing him until their foreheads touched. Sex was a surefire way to avoid discussing the issue, but Alfred’s more-or-less imminent arrival meant that nothing of the sort would happen.

“And I decided we’d take them to the only space available, shy of right here on the grounds.”

“Jerome wouldn’t have stood for it any more than I would have done. The impasse stands.”

Bruce nodded soberly, lips pressed against Jeremiah’s cheek. “Alfred doesn’t want Five here.”

“To be honest,” Jeremiah admitted quietly, “I can’t decide which I’d want least, let alone both.”

“As long as they don’t cause trouble,” Bruce replied, “we should let them stay where they are.”

Straightening up as Alfred rattled into the room with a tray, Jeremiah greeted him with a nod.

“Thank you for accommodating the change,” he said. “I didn’t want to inconvenience Bruce.”

“Formality as apology isn’t the way forward,” Alfred said dryly, setting the tray before them.

“You let me get away with it often enough,” Bruce replied, reaching for a teacup. “Thanks.”

“That’s all to say,” Alfred told Jeremiah, wearily fond, “no apology required. Maybe Master Bruce hasn’t explained my role clearly enough.”

Jeremiah responded with the one smile in his repertoire that Bruce found difficult to read.

“I’ll be sure to remember that next time I have an outlandish request,” he said, all charm.

“Enough with the nattering,” Alfred said, already making his exit. “You’d best eat up.”

About halfway through their sandwiches, Bruce’s phone rang. Lucius was calling from his office at Wayne Industries, so Bruce put him on speaker.

“I don’t mean to disrupt your Monday off,” Lucius said with trepidation, “but I just received a call from Dr. Thompkins.”

“Lee?” Bruce asked, exchanging tense glances with Jeremiah. “What did she want?”

“There’s no tactful way to put this,” Lucius replied, gravely apologetic. “Jeri called her late this morning with an emergency, and wouldn’t tell her what it was until they were en route to the penthouse.”

“Who did they kill,” Jeremiah said wearily, “and how extensive’s the clean-up?”

“We shouldn’t make assumptions,” Bruce said cautiously, “but I’m afraid to ask. What happened?”

“Nobody’s dead, but Five might be dying. Nosebleeds and high fever, in and out of consciousness. Jerome’s presenting as distraught. Lee helped bring Five’s temp down and make him comfortable. She’s had a look at his Indian Hill files. Her best guess is immune system failure. She called Fish first because she couldn’t think of what else to do, but Fish had no insights to offer from the late Dr. Strange.”

Jeremiah glared into his teacup like he hoped to find answers.

Bruce braced his elbows against his knees and stared at the floor.

“According to Kathryn Monroe’s private physician, Five was deteriorating. Back when I first met him, I tried researching the pattern of his scars. There’s no explanation for why he’s lived this long. Is it possible there’s _not_ a congenital flaw behind his symptoms? What if it’s chronic illness?” Bruce closed his eyes, grateful for Jeremiah’s steadying hand against his back. “I’m authorizing you to unlock whatever was sealed. Anything pertaining to my parents’ DNA archiving and the Court’s use of it. I realize this will result in board resignations.”

“Lee also felt obliged to mention,” Lucius went on, “that Fish has likely already reported the situation to Penguin.”

“That’s it, then,” said Jeremiah, setting his cup and saucer down. “_We’re_ the dead men.”

Taking Jeremiah’s hand, Bruce shook his head. “Thank you, Lucius. Please bring home whatever you find. I take full responsibility.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Lucius replied. “Tell Alfred not to worry his head off if I’m late,” he added ruefully, and then hung up.

“If you were thinking of calling Ed,” Jeremiah said, “now would be the time. He’d find our observations pertinent, and know how to frame them.”

Bruce nodded, clutching Jeremiah’s hand to his chest. “He’s the only person with a shot at making Oswald see sense. I mean, Fish could, but she might hold the line. We can’t count on her talking Oswald out of wanting them imprisoned, or worse.”

“Presenting as distraught,” Jeremiah echoed, shifting his gaze toward the window. “_Hmmm_.”

“That’s probably how Lee put it,” Bruce murmured. “Although, depending on how much time she spent there...”

Alfred tended to leave them to their own devices for several hours after informal meal-delivery, so Bruce didn’t feel guilty about lying back and letting Jeremiah do whatever he wanted. It was a relief to just kiss and touch, seek grounding in each other.

“You already know what Jerome will do if he loses what’s dear to him,” Jeremiah said. “If you don’t call Ed, I will.”


	6. Idol

Edward was late to the table because he’d gotten a _not_ entirely unexpected call from Wayne Manor. The surprise element had been Jeremiah’s voice on the line. Usually, Bruce did the talking for both of them instead of the other way around.

Understandably, this was even more of a sensitive matter for Jeremiah than it was for Bruce.

Edward had absorbed the information with dismay. His firsthand experiences with Jerome had been limited to the night of the blackout while Oswald was still in office, and brief glimpses of him during the siege that he, Bruce, and the girls had staged on Strange’s hideout to rescue Jeremiah, too late in the physical sense, from his brother’s machinations.

There was no question that Jerome bore his twin some form of love, but the revelation that Jerome’s alliance with Five went beyond the pragmatic gave Edward pause. Even among monsters, Jerome was an unpredictable outlier—and Five was a chimerical riddle.

“Look who’s finally decided to join us,” Oswald remarked as Edward took his habitual seat.

Next to Edward, Martín stopped chewing on his brioche roll and signed, _Who called you?_

“Your St. Ignatius idol and your billionaire bestie,” Edward said, picking up his soup spoon.

_It was nice of Jeremiah to speak to my class_, Martín signed mildly. _He’s inspiring._

“More eating, less talking,” Oswald said, already halfway through his bowl of Olga’s best borscht. “Ed, what did our young friends want?”

Before Edward could open his mouth to form a tactful explanation, Fish stormed into the room with a breathless Caroline and Vee on her heels. Olga breezed through and set another plate.

“Ms. Agapova, always an honor to sit at your table,” Fish said, taking her place at the opposite end from Oswald. “What’s cooking?”

_Olga and Sveta made borscht_, Martín signed. _They baked the rolls fresh, too!_

“Then I’m in for a treat,” Fish said, reaching for the basket as Martín scooted it toward her, “but your fathers are not. I come bearing news.”

“If it’s the same news I just got,” Edward said, stirring his soup, “then I’ll let you deliver it.”

“Oswald,” Fish said, tearing a roll in half, “Bruce and Jeremiah are harboring the fugitives. Jerome and his paramour are tucked up all cozy in Midtown, but all’s not well. Five’s gravely ill, so the Doc and Fox are involved.”

Edward turned toward Martín, letting his son grab his hand beneath the table. “Show me what you’ve been drawing,” he whispered.

“I absolutely _cannot_ believe,” Oswald shrieked, “that I _ever_ placed my trust in those—those children! It’s pathetic, but I wish I even had a _reason_ to be surprised! That just goes to show you how much more efficient I am on a _shoestring budget_ in comparison! All Bruce Wayne’s billions, and he couldn’t even track them down over the summer! How much do you want to bet that duplicitous boy-toy of his convinced him to let the freaks go? After all that trouble I went to a couple years back—”

“You do _not_ get to pull your monster-hunt into this,” Fish seethed, pointing her butter-knife at him. “Shut your damn mouth. Besides, I thought you’d repented of that for darling Ivy’s sake. I don’t want to _imagine_ what Bridgit and Selina would do if they could hear you right now. You were hunting me down, too. You’re goddamn lucky I’m even here.”

Martín was smirking as he flipped pages. Edward couldn’t blame him for indulging in a bit of schadenfreude. Hearing Oswald get the occasional dressing-down was a treat.

“All right, Fish,” Oswald said, wiping his mouth on the nearest napkin. “I’m listening.”

“What do you know about Santa Muerte?” Fish asked Oswald, tilting her head pointedly.

Edward itched to give a lecture, but he held his tongue and read Martín’s note as he penned it.

_Feminine embodiment of death revered in Mexico, Central America, South America, parts of USA. She grants protection, healing, and safe passage to the afterlife. Used to be a male saint, but mythology has shifted. Patron and protector of outcasts, specifically LGBTQ community. I understand Fish. It’s both good and not-good. Schrödinger’s Saint._

“Precious little,” Oswald sneered, seeking solace in his soup. “My parents were Protestant.”

Before Fish could go on, Edward held up his hand. “Martín to the rescue. How about I just pass this—” he passed Martín’s notebook to Oswald “—and save us the time.”

Martín beamed and signed, _I did a research paper on saints’ cults in the New World._

Unable to keep from returning his son’s smile, Oswald read what was written on the page. His expression faded as he read, tapping the tabletop with his licked-clean spoon.

“You mentioned at our briefing some months ago that this 514A subverts any number of…” Oswald stole a sidelong glance at Martín, sliding the notebook back at him; Martín scrawled and passed it back. “Gender and biological sex conventions. So, exactly _how_ do you propose there’s risk of him—” Martín made a disapproving face at Oswald “—_them_ becoming Our Lady of Holy Death, Gotham Edition?”

“Oswald, you’re not that dense,” Edward said under his breath. “Also, how about accepting that you don’t know everything?”

“We all know how the Narrows loves a coup,” Fish replied. “Jerome Valeska falling in love is the single worst thing that could’ve happened. Kill their prodigal Savior and his consort, and all hell breaks loose. Jerome’s cult reborn. Their graves would be a shrine. I’d bet your entire fortune that deadly, lovely Five becomes the downtrodden masses’ favorite.”

“Lee can’t afford the disruption,” Edward said, inclining his head toward Martín, who was lost in sketching, “and neither can we.”

“Fine!” Oswald snapped, slamming the spoon back in his bowl. “But what do you propose we _do_ about it?”

Fish raised her eyebrows at Edward, arms spread in conspiratorial supplication. Between the two of them, with Martín’s assistance, they had playing Oswald down to a science.

“Wait and watch,” said Edward, setting his hand over Oswald’s. “Bruce and Jeremiah promised they’d take responsibility. So far, they have. Let’s give them a shot at bearing it out.”

_I’m not hungry anymore_, Martín signed to anyone who’d listen. _Can I still go see the girls? Ivy got some kind of really weird plant to grow, and she’s going to make—_

Oswald drew Edward’s hand up to his mouth and kissed it. “Ed, would you mind taking him?”

“Give me five minutes to finish eating,” Edward said, inwardly pleased to see Fish and Oswald flinch. “Martín, not so fast. You’re not going anywhere till you finish that borscht.”

“_Ugh_,” Martín said, having recently added that to his selective repertoire of vocalizations. _Why are you the worst?_

“Ed’s the worst?” Fish asked, offering Martín the bread-basket. “I thought Dad was the worst.”

“They’re both,” Martín sulked in a whisper, snatching the last roll. _My soup’s cold now._

“Olga!” Oswald shouted, rolling his eyes when Sveta appeared instead. “Reheat this.”

“Always a pleasure to see you, too, boss,” said Sveta, coming around to fetch Martín’s bowl. She caught sight of the mini-essay Martín had written. “Hey, you know your stuff. We had that back in New Mexico, on the rez. Not as popular in Zuñi as it was with my friends in Burque, but a couple of the girls I used to hang with were hardcore devotees.”

_One of my friends at school is trans_, Martín signed. _Cody’s mom let him be himself._ He took a thoughtful bite of his roll, and then looked at Fish. _Did I get Five’s pronouns wrong? Better safe than sorry._

“Martín’s getting into extracurriculars lately,” Edward explained. “Chairing his school’s Alliance. Jeremiah said there wasn’t anything like that when he was a student, so he’s pledged a degree of sponsorship. My guess is that it’ll be more financial than hands-on.”

“That’s excellent practice, being in charge,” Fish said to Martín. “Five uses _he_.” _For now_, she thought.

Oswald leaned heavily into his palm, defeated. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

“Well, there you go,” Sveta said, winking over her shoulder at Edward as she whisked the bowl out. “Let the kid solve this one for you. It’s not like his rich uncles are gonna object.”


	7. Bad Decisions

Jeremiah was startled to realize that, during the thirty minutes or so he’d spent on the phone with Ed, Bruce had fallen asleep beside him. They’d moved to the bedroom before Jeremiah made the call so that Alfred could clear the remnants of their lunch from the library unhindered.

Bruce stirred when Jeremiah ran reverent fingers through his hair, blinking sleepily. “Hmmm?”

“All squared away, dear heart,” Jeremiah said softly, pressing a kiss against Bruce’s cheek.

“I hope Oswald listens,” Bruce murmured, closing his eyes again. “Otherwise…I don’t know.”

“Keep in mind,” Jeremiah went on, gathering him close, “that Jerome’s anything but helpless.”

“No, but Five is,” Bruce said. “If Jerome leaves the penthouse for any reason, he’s putting himself in danger. If any of Oswald’s crew find him—”

“Something tells me,” Jeremiah sighed, “that you couldn’t _pry_ him from Five’s side.”

Bruce frowned, stroking Jeremiah’s jaw, tracing up to his temple. “Are you meeting with Ivy?” 

Jeremiah shrugged and pulled Bruce tighter against him. “It doesn’t really matter if I’m late.”

“You’re not taking this seriously,” Bruce said, touching Jeremiah’s forehead. “Let her help.”

“It’s been two weeks since the last one,” Jeremiah protested. “They’re getting less frequent.”

“Less frequent doesn’t mean _gone_,” Bruce insisted. “I don’t want you to keep suffering.”

“Come on, Bruce,” Jeremiah said, pecking him on the lips. “They’re migraines, not seizures.”

“I’m going to drive you there myself,” Bruce replied, but he broke into a yawn almost instantly.

“My darling’s so overworked,” Jeremiah sighed, disengaging from Bruce, tugging up the covers.

“What are you doing?” Bruce asked, struggling to sit up even as Jeremiah rose from the bed.

Retrieving the rest of his clothing, Jeremiah glanced back over his shoulder. “What you asked?”

“Have Alfred drive you,” Bruce said, features taut with worry. “I know you’d usually walk—”

“Anything to set you at ease,” Jeremiah promised, watching Bruce flop back against the pillow.

“I don’t like the thought of what they’d do to either of us given the chance. We failed them.”

“Ed seemed calm in spite of what my explanation entailed,” Jeremiah pointed out. “Rational.”

Bruce rolled onto his side, wistfully pensive, staring at Jeremiah as he finished getting dressed.

“What would be happening now,” he ventured, “if what happened to you had put us at odds?”

“For my part,” Jeremiah said with resolve, “not even madness could make me stop loving you.”

Bruce nodded slowly, twisting his fingers in the sheets. “Don’t think I could let you go, either.”

“So don’t be morbid!” Jeremiah laughed, making his way back to the bed. He sat down on the edge of he mattress and fussed with Bruce’s hair.

Jeremiah didn’t leave until Bruce had dozed off again, not willing to risk Bruce stubbornly deciding to tag along. He needed to clear his thoughts, and the short ride gave him just enough time to decide what he ought to tell Ivy.

With any luck, Harley Eccles—his former assistant, still Ecco in some part of his mind—would be around. She and Ivy had been inseparable since her convalescence after the bunker explosion more than a year ago. Living with Ivy, Bridgit, and Selina had all but placed her in Penguin’s employ. Alfred was beyond competent, but Jeremiah missed her.

Selina answered the door with a huff, tugging Jeremiah inside by his shirt-sleeve. “Ives!”

When nobody came to greet them, Jeremiah had no choice but to go where Selina took him.

“Aw, look what Cat dragged in,” Bridgit said as they passed her in the cluttered living room.

“Are the lovebirds out back?” Selina demanded. “They didn’t say when he’d arrive.”

“Would a text exchange suffice as proof of my appointment?” Jeremiah asked, rolling his eyes.

“Greenhouse,” Bridgit said, not looking up from her book, jerking a thumb over her shoulder.

Selina released Jeremiah’s sleeve and kept on walking. “This way. Don’t touch anything.”

“As if I’d risk it,” said Jeremiah, with just enough halfhearted sarcasm to make her glare.

“Where’s Bruce?” Selina asked, grabbing his arm again as she ushered him through the patio space and into the greenhouse. “Word on the street says you guys are glued at the hip.”

“Rumor has it you’re never alone, either,” Jeremiah shot back, relieved to see a familiar face.

“Hey, Mr. J,” Harley said, waving him over to where Ivy crouched next to a sizeable terracotta pot with head-high tomato plants growing in it. “You’ve gotta see these. I used to pick ’em in the woods when I was a kid. They’re creepy.”

“Fitting,” Jeremiah said, dropping to a crouch next to Ivy. “_Monotropa uniflora_, you said?”

Ivy nodded, showing off clusters of strange, waxy white plants growing in the tomatoes’ shade.

“Got a test-bottle of tincture out of the first batch,” she said. “I’m not mass producing yet.”

“Is Bruce gonna let you take that stuff?” Selina asked. “Bet he had to research it to hell and back.”

“He wouldn’t get off my case until I agreed to come here,” Jeremiah replied, and then turned to Ivy. “Unless you need it, I’ll take it right away.”

Ivy took the bottle of vivid brownish-purple liquid out of her overcoat pocket, shaking it at him.

“You and Bruce had better read up together and decide what dosage you need. There’s not enough info out there even among herbalists.”

Jeremiah got to his feet, holding the dropper-bottle up to the light. “Looks like a stage prop.”

“Can you believe that color’s just how it turns out?” Harley said, pleased. “No food coloring.”

Selina approached until she was shoulder to shoulder with Jeremiah, squinting at it dubiously.

“You better hope it’s not poison,” she deadpanned. “You oughta see what Ivy did with fungi back when we were kids.”

Palming the bottle before Selina could say another word, Jeremiah tucked it in his pocket.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” he said, and then shook Ivy’s hand. “I’ll stick to myco-heterotrophs.”

“Do you even know what that means?” Selina asked, rolling her eyes when Ivy glared at her.

“These aren’t fungi,” Jeremiah said, glad to see Harley smirking over his triumph. “They _parasitize_ fungi, and otherwise use photosynthesis.”

“So what, you know how to Google,” Selina said, turning on her heel. “Since you nerds are so busy with Botany Club, I’m gonna scram.”

Bridgit would have run smack into Selina, but she was pushing Martín Cobblepot ahead of her.

“Ed dropped him off,” she complained, shoving the boy at Jeremiah. “Nobody tells me shit.”

Jeremiah patted Martín on the back, still not used to the boy’s unreserved penchant for hugs.

“You’re not a fuckin’ receptionist,” Harley told Bridgit. “Chill and get some fresh air for once.”

Martín let go of Jeremiah, pulled out his notebook, and wrote, _I didn’t know you’d be here!_

“Gotham’s a small world,” Jeremiah said, resigned, “and the Palisades is even smaller.”

_You don’t sound happy_, Martín wrote, chewing his lip. _Is something wrong?_

“Under some strain,” Jeremiah admitted, watching the boy’s expression shift. “Houseguests.”

_You mean at the penthouse?_ Martín wrote, eyes wicked with curiosity. _Jerome?_

Jeremiah just stared at him, determined not to display his precise level of consternation.

“Your fathers don’t keep many secrets, do they,” he said eventually. “What else did you hear?”

_Fish used to know Five_, Martín wrote excitedly. _At Indian Hill. She said he’s sick?_

“Sick, or dying,” Jeremiah relented, attempting to remain neutral. “There may be nothing for it.”

_Have you met him?_ Martín asked. _You must have helped Bruce put them there._

“Twice, and not very long each time,” Jeremiah admitted. “We’re not on the best of terms.”

Martín nodded pensively, considering his response. _Is it hard to accept that your brother is capable of loving someone as much as you love Bruce?_

Jeremiah stared at him again, realizing he probably wasn’t hiding his internal conflict anymore.

Tilting his head, Martín flipped to a fresh page. _You said your uncle arranged for you to go into Witness Protection and attend St. Ignatius because Jerome tried to kill you when you were both ten. Is that true? Kids sometimes make bad decisions._

“Jerome has made nothing but bad decisions his whole life,” Jeremiah said, averting his eyes.

_No_, Martín wrote solemnly, _I meant you._


	8. Bad Penny

While Selina was walking up the driveway to Wayne Manor, Alfred was on his way down it in the Rolls-Royce. He stopped, rolled down his window, and leaned out to greet her.

“Selina, I hope you’re having a better day than Bruce. You won’t find him cheerful company.”

Selina tucked her hands in her pockets and shrugged, mock-frowning at him. “Hey, try me.”

“Library,” Alfred said, already rolling his window back up. “Snap him out of it, will you?”

It would’ve been fun, for old times’ sake, if she’d had to pick the lock on the library window. She found it open a fraction, so all she had to do was push it to climb through.

“You guys haven’t learned shit security-wise, have you?” she asked, hopping down to the floor.

“We installed an alarm specific to that window after the first few times you broke in,” Bruce said, not looking up from whatever documentation he was frowning at on the iPad in front of him. “Five tripped it off the night he broke in.”

“Wow,” Selina said, propping herself against the side of the desk, leaning over to see why he looked so pissy. “Feels like yesterday. Was that _really_ only about three years ago?”

Bruce nodded curtly. Instead of turning the iPad off, Bruce turned it around so she could look.

“Holy smokes,” Selina said, eyes tracking over the classified report. “This is about him, huh?”

“I authorized Lucius to unseal all documents pertaining to my parents’ DNA archiving practices. He’s been sending the documents to me as he finds them. We know some Wayne Enterprises board members were collaborating with the Court of Owls and Hugo Strange behind my father’s back.”

“Man, they hated you for putting the kibosh on _that_,” she said. “They sent Five to take your place while they had you locked up with Ed that one time, didn’t they? Rescuing you guys’ dumb butts was the most fun I’d had in a while. I guess so was rescuing J.”

“I’m still sorry for what Five did while he was impersonating me,” Bruce admitted. “I wish…”

“Dude, you don’t control him,” Selina said. “You aren’t the same person, even if some of your parents’ DNA, or _your_ DNA, went into making him.”

“Five’s not a clone in the strictest sense,” Bruce said. “They did use some of my family’s DNA, but the rest belonged to Kathryn Monroe. She’s the surrogate who carried him. He had a mother, and I never knew. I watched Oswald kill her when all of you rescued Ed and me.”

“Reality check,” Selina said, turning the iPad off. “We all watched. She was trying to kill _us_.”

“I need to help Lucius and Lee figure out what’s happening to Five,” Bruce said. “I owe him.”

“I got the impression you and J were doing this for Jerome, and that’s the problem everybody has. Besides, Five was a douche to me and Alfred.”

“Five became disillusioned with the Court after all of that,” Bruce said. “He stopped impersonating me, which he hated doing anyway, and vanished.”

“Didn’t stay like that for long, did he,” Selina sighed. “Back like a bad penny, thanks to Jerome.”

Bruce rose and stared at the bookshelf, pondering. “I’m tired of keeping score,” he said. “Who did what, why they did it, how the consequences shake out. I owe both of them.”

“Jerome and Five, or Jerome and Jeremiah?” Selina asked, setting a hand on Bruce’s shoulder.

“All of them,” Bruce said quietly, shaking her off as he reached for a dense biology textbook.

Selina nodded to herself, folding her hand against her chest. She wandered over to the nearest sofa and flopped down on the end cushion.

“You coulda been something really scary,” she said. “Jim Gordon’s protégé, or whatever. Military, police academy, good old GCPD. Instead, you sided with the criminals and screw-ups. Why?”

“Well, there’s the obvious,” Bruce said, sitting back down and opening the book. “Jeremiah—”

“Having Jerome for a brother doesn’t make him a criminal _or_ a screw-up. Just unlucky.”

Bruce stopped skimming the introduction, staring at her. “There’s a lot you don’t know.”

“Understatement,” said Jeremiah, bursting through the door. He dropped his hat on the coffee table and went right over to the desk, resting his palms on the edge of it. “Did you ever have a heart-to-heart with Martín about my family’s past?”

“No,” Bruce said, puzzled, “but he did ask to see Jerome’s Arkham file. He said it was for a school report.”

“I know I’ve declined to read through it repeatedly, and that’s on me,” Jeremiah continued, exhaling as if to cool his temper. “_But_—what’s in there, besides documents from his first two sentences? They said he never discussed his family during group therapy.”

“Oh, he discussed you plenty during his third…” Bruce’s expression changed. “_Oh_.”

Selina threw up her hands and rose. “Listen, I put up with enough lovers’ spats at home.”

Jeremiah didn’t even acknowledge her presence, regarding Bruce with something like fear.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, his anger fading to muted panic. “I would have—”

“I don’t hold what I learned from the transcripts against you,” Bruce said, rising, reaching for him. “You were _ten_.”

Jeremiah closed his eyes, side-stepping Bruce’s attempt at touching him. He set his hands on the edge of the desk again, shoulders sagging.

“I’m not a good person, Bruce. Even less of one than you already accept,” Jeremiah said tautly. “Maybe you should reconsider.”

“Haven’t we been over this?” Bruce asked, coaxing him. “After what I’ve done, neither am I.”

“Oh, yeah, we killed that guy one time!” Selina said. “And then you basically went and killed that _other_ guy.”

Jeremiah straightened, but he still wouldn’t let Bruce touch him. “Did you ruin your sibling’s life?”

“Jerome almost ruined yours, too,” Bruce pointed out. “Isn’t it safe to assume you’re even?”

Jeremiah gave him a befuddled look. “You were mad enough to kill him when you saved me.”

Selina whistled, sitting down on the arm of the sofa. “I’m gonna regret not recording this.”

Both young men stared at her, as if they’d just remembered her presence. Bruce rubbed his eyes, and that was when Selina noticed the dark circles.

“I was saying this to Selina before you got here,” Bruce said, “but I’m tired of keeping score.”

Finally reaching for Bruce, Jeremiah took both of his hands. “I understand why you’re doing this. I’m even ready to admit why I’m _helping_ you do this. It’s just, we _did_ promise—”

“Penguin?” Selina asked, waving her hand at them. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Fish and Ed talked some sense into him. The short version is that keeping those two freaks alive is in _his_ best interests, too. The last thing we need is a revival of Jerome’s cult.”

“They’d elevate Five’s status, too,” Bruce said after a few stunned seconds. “Canonize them both.”

“Five’s the one to worry about. Even if you let Jerome live,” Selina said, “Five might still die. If he does, Jerome will go on a rampage.”

“Has Lucius sent anything?” Jeremiah asked, glancing at the textbook. “Have you solved it?”

“Setting the world to rights, eh,” Alfred said, peering into the library. “You’ve got company.”

Lucius followed Alfred into the room. He had a sheaf of papers under his arm that looked so heavy Selina didn’t envy him one bit.

“Bruce, have you reviewed what I sent?” he asked. “I’ve found it…somewhat enlightening.”

Bruce nodded, realization dawning. “It’s not a pathogen or congenital flaw. It’s autoimmune.”

“That’s my theory,” Lucius said, looking impressed that Bruce had come to the same conclusion. “Anyhow, I need you to come with me—on the condition that Jeremiah stays here.”

“Why?” asked Jeremiah, defensively. “I know everything there is to know about this situation.”

“Because your brother doesn’t want you there,” Lucius said, “and I happen to believe Bruce is one of only two people who’ll be able to keep him calm while Lee draws Five’s blood.”

“Jeri’s the other,” Bruce agreed. “I hope you’ll have her on hand, too. I might not succeed.”

“I’ll stay here with J,” Selina said, smirking at Jeremiah’s consternation. “We can play cards.”


	9. Green Light

Five opened his eyes when the mattress dipped. He heard a tray slide onto the nightstand.

“Hiya, princess,” Jerome said brightly, looking so relieved he might cry. “How d’you feel?”

“Worn out,” Five said, finding his throat scratchy. He reached for Jerome, his eyes stinging.

“_Shhh_, pretty baby,” Jerome murmured, voice rough, gathering him close. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m really sick,” Five hiccupped against Jerome’s shoulder, gasping. “I scared you so much.”

“Your temp’s down,” Jerome said, kissing Five’s cheek over and over. “You’re gonna be fine.”

Five frowned, hiding his face more fully so Jerome wouldn’t see. “But...the nosebleed?”

“That was this morning, this is now,” Jerome insisted. “You haven’t had another one yet.”

Five shook his head, trying to breathe as Jerome went on rubbing his back. “Still. Not good.”

Jerome reached behind Five’s back and arranged the pile of pillows so Five could sit up.

“Doc says you need to eat and drink stuff,” he said, grabbing a glass of water off the tray.

Five let Jerome hold the glass for him while he took several swallows, and then said, “Doc?”

“Doc Thompkins,” Jerome said, helping him drink the rest. “My old-buddy-old-pal, Lee.”

“I thought she didn’t like you,” Five murmured, feeling exhausted already. “She’s here?”

“Yup, was here this morning to help break your fever,” Jerome said. “Came back with more stuff. She says Fish Mooney wants you alive.”

“I haven’t…” Five started to cry anyway. “Haven’t seen Fish since we escaped from Strange.”

“Doc says if Fish wants you alive, that’s a good sign,” said Jerome, wiping Five’s eyes with a napkin. “Means Birdbrain won’t try to kill us.”

“Won’t try to kill us? Won’t let me die, either?” Five asked, completely bewildered. “Why?”

Jerome looked around as if he was making sure nobody else was in the room. He reached for the plate of plain toast and held it out for Five.

“For my money, it’s ’cause they’re altruistic dumbasses,” Jerome said, shrugging. “I dunno.”

Five took a bite of toast. There was butter on it. He chewed and swallowed even though his stomach seemed entirely opposed to the idea.

“I’ve been out of it since this morning?” Five asked, staring at the clock. “It’s almost four.”

“Yeah,” Jerome said, bumping Five’s lips with the toast. “You seemed lucid one other time.”

“You were beside me,” Five said around a grudging bite. “I could feel you there. Hear you.”

“There’s no way I’m gonna leave you alone, precious,” Jerome said, wiping Five’s mouth.

“Did Doctor Thompkins find anything?” Five asked hesitantly. “Did she ask to see my file?”

“Had to give it to her,” Jerome said, looking guilty as anything. “Didn’t know what else to do.”

“No,” Five reassured him, finishing the toast even though it made him nauseous, “that’s fine.”

Jerome set the plate aside and crawled under the covers beside Five. “C’mere, sweet pea.”

Closing his eyes against the insistent roiling of his stomach, Five clung to Jerome tightly.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he whispered. “Does she even know what’s wrong?”

“Jeri said Lee and Brucie have Fox digging around in Wayne Enterprises archives,” Jerome said, absently playing with Five’s braid. “Guess they were cozy with the Court.”

“Wouldn’t take much,” Five mumbled into the curve of Jerome’s neck, enjoying his touch. “Bruce’s parents might’ve been cozy with the mob, too. Rumors at the Foxglove.”

“Anyway, they’ll come here the second they know what to do. We’re gonna get you better.”

Five resisted the urge to say Kathryn’s doctor had already determined two and a half years ago that there was likely no cure.

“Hey, love-bugs!” Jeri called from outside the bedroom door. “You better be decent in there.”

Laughing weakly, Five just held onto Jerome while she poked her head into the room. “Yes.”

“Jokin’ with ya,” she said, half-smiling at the sight of them. “Neither of you is in any shape.”

“I told you not to bother us,” Jerome said, sounding genuinely angry, “unless it was important.”

“Tough shit,” Jeri said. “It is. Got a text sayin’ Lucius and Bruce are gonna be here in an hour.”

“I don’t want to see Bruce,” Five said, realizing how petulant he sounded. “Did they say why?”

“Lucius has some more files to show Doc, and he’s gonna have Lee draw some blood for him.”

“Five’s blood, you mean?” Jerome asked, finally turning his head to look at her. “What for?”

“Sounds like maybe they have an idea what to test for,” Jeri said. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Are you gonna be okay?” Jerome asked softly, stroking Five’s cheek. “Letting them do that?”

Five shrugged, closing his eyes again. “It’s not like I can feel pain. I’m not delirious anymore.”

“Guess that’s a green light,” Jerome said, nuzzling Five’s temple. “Shut the door, would ya?”

Five could hear Jeri start to talk to Lee in the living room. He was struck by how people on both sides of Gotham’s equation were so willing to help.

“I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I should,” Five said. “Kathryn’s private doctor didn’t think there was anything that could be done. Back when I was still…being Bruce at Wayne Manor, having nosebleeds every few days.”

“That quack probably didn’t even review your file,” Jerome said. “Listened to your heart, looked at your tongue, took your temp, got outta dodge.”

Five was impressed with Jerome’s insightful speculation. “That was more or less it, yes.”

“Anyone shy of Hugo Strange himself lookin’ at you wouldn’t know,” Jerome insisted.

“I don’t think Kathryn could find him at the time,” Five admitted. “Nobody could.”

Jerome kissed Five’s forehead, and then drew back just enough to look at him, unblinking.

“Such gorgeous eyes,” Jerome said, heartbreakingly candid. “They’re darker than his.”

“Than Bruce’s?” Five asked, taking in the color of Jerome’s. “Yours aren’t normal blue.”

“Yours aren’t normal blue, either,” Jerome said, “and not Bruce’s blue. Hazel mixed in.”

“That might be what color Kathryn’s eyes were,” Five said quietly. “I don’t remember.”

“How are mine not normal blue?” Jerome prompted, trying to cheer him. “Crazy blue?”

“They look grey-greenish blue in sunlight,” Five said. “Deep blue the rest of the time.”

“That’s the same as crazy blue,” Jerome said, winking. “Sure you’re okay with this?”

“I don’t think I’ve had blood drawn, or anything else medical,” Five said, “for a long time.”

“If you don’t want ’em here, princess,” Jerome said, “you just give the word. I’ll tell Jeri.”

“No, let them,” Five said, lulled by Jerome’s heartbeat. “I need to survive this for you. For _us_.”


	10. Ginger Snaps

Harley had decided to hang around in the greenhouse for a while after Jeremiah’s departure with Alfred. She couldn’t help but imagine it must be nice to have a butler ferry you around like that. Jeremiah had never learned to drive, and it didn’t look like Bruce would make him.

Bridgit hung around, too, in one of Ivy’s ridiculous broad-brimmed sun hats. She helped Harley make the watering rounds while Ivy and Martín were busy harvesting more ghost pipes. There was no better way to get a confession out of her than to join in what she was doing.

“You need to talk or somethin’?” Harley ventured, cornering Bridgit at the far side of the greenhouse, making it clear that she’d grabbed the other watering can. “It bugs you when Selina goes to see her old bestie, huh?”

“Let’s get one thing straight, Eccles,” Bridgit said, setting down her watering can. “I was Selina’s bestie before Billionaire Boy entered the picture. Hell, I was Selina’s bestie before Ivy fucking Pepper ever entered the picture. So, yeah. It _kinda_ bugs me.”

“Did you have a problem with Ivy, too?” Harley pressed, checking a head-high sunflower’s leaves for insect damage. She released it, satisfied, and got down to watering. “When the three of you moved in here, I mean?”

“Extenuating circumstances,” Bridgit sighed, scatching her nose while she watered the heavy-bearing squash vines. “Oswald and Ivy tracked me down. They needed my help. Imagine my surprise when Selina was there, too.”

“Sounds like a happy ending to me,” Harley said brightly, “even if settling in was kinda rough.”

“God, you are just…like, a ray of sunshine, huh?” Bridgit asked. “No wonder Ivy loves you.”

“Oh, I wasn’t always,” Harley said, abandoning her watering can, too. “Don’t get me wrong, I was in a pretty awful place when I first met J. He was dealing with some serious paranoia and shit. Like—bitter, lonely queers with no family left. I worked in that one coffee shop across from campus, absolutely hated it. He was about to finish up all his studies, needed an assistant. He didn’t smile a whole lot, so I learned how to laugh. Made him laugh, even, when nobody else was around. Those snobs at Meyer & Hayes didn’t know how to have fun. I made sure he had at least a little.”

Bridgit nodded, chewing on her lower lip. It was like she couldn’t let on _she_ wanted to smile.

“You ought to be an inspirational speaker on the side. Tell Penguin to start hiring you out.”

“Nah,” Harley said. “I’m better off makin’ sure you ladies don’t go off the rails. Ivy’s a leader, but she’s no administrator. Before I got this house’s books in order? Uh, _disaster_. Anyway, what d’you have to be bitter about? You got Selina like you always wanted.”

“She and Bruce understand each other in some way I can’t grasp,” Bridgit admitted, annoyed.

“So what?” Harley countered. “J and I understand each other in some way Bruce can’t grasp.”

Martín had lost interest in helping Ivy and was making his way slowly across the greenhouse toward them. He was pretending to check on various seedlings as he went, glancing nervously in their direction every few feet he advanced.

Bridgit rolled her eyes, shifting her stance. She removed Ivy’s hat from her head and put it on Martín when he got close enough. It was starting to get raw outside, but the sun was still bright, and Ivy kept the greenhouse interior so humid you almost couldn’t breathe.

“I heard,” Martín said sheepishly, voice barely above a whisper. “Neither of you should worry.”

“Yeah!” Ivy shouted from across the greenhouse, waving at them. “Everything’s gonna be fine!”

“Does sound carry that much in here?” Harley asked, handing Martín one of the watering cans.

“Kinda, yeah,” Martín said, and went off to busy himself before Ivy could tell him to do just that.

Harley couldn’t help but feel relieved that Ivy’s timing was impeccable, as far as getting the awkward tension-break over with. Selina burst in through the greenhouse’s side door, which meant she must have cut through the back yard.

“Damn, am I glad to see you,” she said, shrugging out of her jacket. “The guys are _such_ a mopey drag.”

“Uh, yeah,” Harley said, fixing her upswept hair. “That’s ’cause you ladies have dibs on my sunny disposition!”

“Gimme a break,” Ivy said, taking Martín’s hand and hauling him over. “You’re upsetting him.”

Martín signed rapidly to Ivy, something that made Selina shake her head and snort in chagrin.

“He says you all need to get back to work or take it inside,” Ivy informed everyone. “Pronto.”

“Nah, buddy,” Selina said, signing while she spoke. “You’ve gotta come outside with me.”

“If it’s because Dad or Ed or somebody is there,” Ivy translated as Martín signed, “no thanks.”

“I don’t know any other school that gives off Halloween week,” Harley told Ivy. “Can he stay?”

“Probably better given that shit-show going down between Wayne Manor and the Van Dahl Estate,” Bridgit pointed out. “Somebody’s gonna have to get his stuff, though. And deal with, like, ten minutes of Oswald shouting while they’re at it.”

“Your costume, too,” Harley reminded Martín, which made him grin and nod. “Ives an’ I can help him with the finishing touches, and then take him around trick-or-treating on Wednesday night.”

“Not it,” Bridgit said, index finger pressed to her nose, making a hasty exit. “Gotta bake stuff.”

“Yeah, for the neighborhood kids!” Selina shouted after her. “You’d swear she wasn’t a sap.”

“C’mon, kiddo,” Ivy sighed, offering Martín her hand. “Wanna take a ride?” She glanced at Harley. “Tag along? Can’t blame you if not.”

Harley went up on tiptoe, patting Ivy’s cheeks as she kissed her apologetically on the mouth.

“If it’s all the same, I got a couple fires to put out around here,” she said, inclining her head toward the house. She stared after Selina’s retreating back, wondering what had gone happened at Wayne Manor to put her in such a disgruntled state. “That okay?”

“_Oooh_ yeah,” Ivy sighed, whistling as she led Martín out the side door. “Be back soon.”

Relieved at the silence that settled, Harley went inside. Selina had settled on the sofa, boots off, kicked back with that morning’s copy of the _Gazette_. Bypassing her, Harley followed the sound of slamming cupboards into the kitchen.

Bridgit stopped untangling measuring spoons and measuring cups. “What’s wrong, Eccles?”

Harley snagged one of Ivy’s cookbooks on her way in. “I’m thinkin’ pumpkin ginger snaps.”


	11. Promises

By now, Jerome knew Jeri’s touch on his arm or shoulder so well that he didn’t automatically pull his knife from the nightstand on her. He rolled away from Five, onto his back, blinking at the figure framed by the half-open door.

“Hate to break it to ya, boss,” Jeri said, indicating the glow from the hall, “but company’s here.”

Five stirred, one fragile-seeming hand darting out from beneath the covers. “It’s Lucius Fox?”

“Yep,” Jerome said, sitting up as he squeezed Five’s wrist. “Here to help Lee with the stuff.”

Nodding, Five buried his face in the pillow, as if even a sliver of light hurt his eyes. “Okay.”

“You won’t feel it, precious,” Jerome reassured him. “For you, that’s no empty promise.”

“I know,” Five said, voice still muffled. “It’s you I’m worried about. Don’t want you upset.”

“Five, we’re gonna take care of him,” said Jeri, firmly. “You’ve gotta trust me on that one.”

“I do,” Five replied, releasing Jerome even as Jerome released him. “If you don’t, then…”

Jerome bent down and kissed Five on the lips, lingering until Five relaxed against the mattress.

“I won’t kill anybody, even though we’re overdue for a date,” Five whispered. “I promise.”

“I know, precious,” Jerome replied, slipping out of bed. He covered Five carefully, and then hunted down boxers and trousers to put on under his robe once Jeri had stepped out. He had gotten used to going barefoot.

“I told ’em to stay on the couch,” Jeri sighed, watching Jerome set his robe in order and retie the belt. “That okay? I think they’ll need access to Five ASAP. They might have to draw so much Five’ll feel kinda faint, so...”

Jerome bypassed her as politely as he could, staring down the quietly-conversing trio on the sofa.

“You two can go in with Jeri,” he ordered, pointing at Lee and Fox in quick succession, “but _you_…” Bruce didn’t flinch, not even when Jerome’s index finger narrowly missed his nose. “You’re gonna stay here with me, because princess doesn’t wanna see you at _all_.”

“That’s fine,” Bruce said, not even scooting away when Jerome sat down right next to him.

Jerome watched Jeri lead the others away, and then considered his options. Getting in Bruce’s face hadn’t even fazed Bruce back in the day, so there was no point in trying. Even something as extreme as those staples he’d put in Bruce’s arm now seemed gauche.

“I appreciate you not bringing…” Jerome did his best impression of Jeremiah’s deer-in-the-headlights look, lapsing out of it as he put his feet up on the coffee table. “Y’know. The other one.”

Bruce nodded wearily, arms folded across his chest as he sank back into the throw pillows.

“High maintenance, isn’t he?” Jerome asked, elbowing Bruce conspiratorially. “Always was.”

“Do you have room to talk?” Bruce asked. “That night, two and a half years ago—you told your men not to damage one of my sofas because you wanted to come back for it. I never forgot.”

Stretching, Jerome put his arms behind his head. “Waste not. At least Mom taught me that.”

It might have been a trick of the side-table light, but Bruce appeared to almost smile at what Jerome had just said. If such an impossible thing had ever happened during their previous encounters, Jerome couldn’t recall. He'd chalk it up to death-induced amnesia.

“Actually, he’s not,” said Bruce. “Everything he’s used to now, I gave him without even thinking to ask.”

“Yeah, but you’re forgetting the whole boarding-school-and-rich-folks thing,” Jerome said reproachfully.

Questioningly, Bruce turned his head and searched Jerome’s face. He was gearing up to say something reckless.

“How much do you actually know about Jeremiah’s life after your uncle snuck him out of the circus?”

Jerome shrugged, bitterly glancing to one side. Was it that he couldn’t let Bruce convince him of anything that wasn’t true, or that he couldn’t risk hearing the truth, full stop? There was a fine line between self-preservation and denial.

“Nobody adopted your brother before he started at St. Ignatius,” Bruce said. “Not during or afterward, either. He had a scholarship covering school-related expenses, but your uncle and father were still sending what money they could. Your mother only sent letters, but you knew that.” He sighed, suddenly reluctant. “Jeremiah told me he used to spend school holidays with classmates’ families, who always seemed uneasy to have him around. He didn’t feel welcome anywhere but the classroom.”

Jerome closed his eyes. Wouldn’t it just figure that nobody really wanted either one of them?

“If I find out you’re lying about this,” he warned, “you won’t hear the end of it. _Ever_. You already know from firsthand experience just how obnoxious I’m willing to be.”

“I checked into everything,” Bruce replied, “to make sure _Jeremiah_ wasn’t lying.”

Blinking rapidly at the ceiling, Jerome twisted sideways to stare at him. “You did what, now?”

Bruce nodded gravely. “I read the additions to your Arkham file,” he said. “The transcripts.”

Jerome went back to staring at the ceiling, fighting the urge to rail at him. “So, you learned…?”

“About what you finally decided to share in group therapy, and beyond that in one-on-one.”

Jerome’s fingers itched for a weapon, but he kept them on his knees. “Ha, you _believed_ that?”

“Yes,” Bruce said quietly, “because I know when you’re telling the truth and when you’re not.”

Just Jerome’s fucking luck. Insufferable, _insightful_ brat, as always. It was so unfair.

“_You_ don’t exactly lie, huh?” he countered. “You’re just good at twisting the truth.”

“Yes,” Bruce said again, with even more emotion than before. “Just like Jeremiah, right?”

Unsure how to respond to any of Bruce’s candidness, Jerome started to cackle, but couldn’t maintain it for long. He also didn’t want Five to hear him, because Five could tell the difference between Jerome’s shades of laughter. Even Bruce—even Jerome’s _twin_—couldn’t.

“Huh,” Jerome said, letting his head loll toward Bruce again. “Good one. You got me there.”

Bruce rolled his eyes and sank a little lower against the sofa-back. He looked incredibly young again, but the weight-of-the-world-on-his-shoulders thing hadn’t changed in the least.

“Would you do me a favor,” Bruce asked, “and not treat anything I’ve said here like a joke?”

“Uh, Bruce?” Jerome said, pulling as much of a frown as his scars permitted. “I’m really not.”

“We’ll figure this out,” insisted Bruce, with conviction. “I won’t rest until we find a treatment.”

“I’ll burn this whole city down if he dies on your watch,” Jerome said. “I’m a man of my word.”


	12. Perpetrators

Olga was in the pantry looking over the shelves, taking notes on her phone with regard to what needed restocking, when the kitchen beyond exploded into conversation. She wondered why she hadn’t heard the perpetrators’ footsteps, or even the kitchen-to-dining-room door swinging open and shut. She finished peering into Martín’s Pop-Tarts box and paused.

“…dunno about anybody else, but I’m _starving_,” Zsasz was saying. The sound of him hopping up on the counter was grating, largely because he insisted on kicking his heels against the cupboard below. “Got anything good, Bellson?”

“There’s borscht left over from lunch,” said Sveta, audibly yanking the refrigerator open. “Not much else. I could pop the rest of the brioche dough into the oven if you want.”

“Heathen,” Vee scolded, with just enough scorn in her voice to make Olga proud. “Get down.”

“Swear to fuckin’ God I don’t know any of you,” Caroline said, although the next series of sounds made it clear she was checking the overhead cupboards. “Rolls are good.”

“Gimme like fifteen minutes,” Sveta replied, the metallic clang of Olga’s dough-bowl coming down on the counter distinctive. “No raiding the pantry! Toaster pastries are for the kid.”

“Uh, you mean _kids_,” Zsasz volunteered. “Boss has got like, what, six or seven now?”

“Depends on who you’re counting besides Martín and the girls,” said Caroline. “Four girls if you count Harley, so I guess that means five.”

“He’s counting Bruce and the boyfriend, too,” Vee remarked dourly, “because Ed’s too fond.”

Olga had learned to tolerate Zsasz-led kitchen invasions, because she picked up valuable gossip this way for reporting back to Oswald. She stepped closer to the pantry door, listening.

“How can you be _too_ fond of those two?” Sveta asked, likely busy breaking the dough into segments and filling a baking tray. “I like ’em. They’re good with Martín.”

“Maybe you haven’t heard,” Zsasz said, “but _those two_ are keeping Jerome and his boyfriend in Midtown. Uh, maybe girlfriend? Last time I was at the Foxglove, Five was still working there and not sure about any of that stuff. Sweet kid, at least till he went rogue.” He paused to chew on something. “Pity Oswald wants me to shoot on-sight. I liked him.”

The sudden, resounding silence indicated to Olga that at least three of the kitchen’s occupants were uneasy with what Zsasz had just said. Judging him for having missed the memo, maybe.

“Oswald wants you to _what_?” Sveta asked, shoving the tray loudly into the oven.

“Kill those two if I come across them in the streets for any reason?” Zsasz said. “Duh.”

“Jesus fuck, are you nuts?” Caroline asked, hitting Zsasz with something harder than a dish towel—her hat, likely. “I know you weren’t covering lunch today, but those orders are void.”

“_Ow_! Don’t look at me like that!” Zsasz said defensively. “I was shooting the shit with Headhunter while you schmucks were cooped up in here.”

“Cee, chill,” Sveta said. “Oswald probably hasn’t had time to tell him about it. We’re all busy.”

“I don’t believe for a second Fish hasn’t done it for him,” Vee said. “Vic, where’s your phone?”

“It died like two hours ago,” Zsasz shot back, tossing the item sarcastically onto the counter. “I haven’t had time to charge it, sheesh.”

Olga rolled her eyes and stepped away from the pantry door, moving on to take dry-goods inventory. The smell of brioche was beginning to fill even Olga’s cramped surroundings.

“Then allow me to charge it for you,” Vee said, making a noisy demonstration of removing one of the cords she kept in her leather-jacket pocket. She plugged it in with a _snap_.

“You _know_ Five?” Sveta blurted, as if she’d only just registered Zsasz’s full speech.

“Sure,” Zsasz said. “I know lots of staff down there. Saturday night happy hour, you feel?”

“What was Five doing?” Sveta prompted. “Bartending? Waitressing? Seriously, I wanna—”

“Kicking ass,” Zsasz replied. “He was on Lucy’s security detail. Disguised as an usher most of the time, you know? Best kept secret on that damn team.”

“How long ago did he…go rogue, or whatever you said?” Sveta asked, entirely too curious.

“Late spring?” Zsasz said. “Jeez, get off my case. I’m already gonna be in the doghouse.”

“There!” Caroline crowed, tapping loudly on either the counter or Zsasz’s phone-screen. “Text from Fish, two hours ago: _Kill those marks, and Oswald will kill YOU. Stand down._”

“Hey, cool,” Zsasz said, mouth full again. “Stupid move, but whatever Boss and Bossier want.”

Swiping away from her list in Notes, Olga pulled up a blank text and specified Edward as the recipient. She typed, _Is true Oswald called off the hit?_

It took Edward an interminable minute to respond. _Yes, entirely true. Why do you ask?_

_Only reason I ask you instead of Oswald is, I do not want him to shout,_ Olga replied.

_Valid reason_, Edward texted back. _Also, could you come out here for a second?_

Olga sighed and put her phone in her waistcoat pocket, ignoring the gobsmacked stares when she burst out of the pantry and marched past. She found Edward, Ivy, and Martín in the sitting room. 

Martín was wearing his backpack, crammed conspicuously full, and signing rapidly at Edward.

“C’mon, Ed,” Ivy said, setting her hands on Martín’s shoulders. “It’s not like you need him underfoot with everything going on. Besides, you got to take him trick-or-treating last year!”

_Will Dad be angry if you let me?_ Martín signed reluctantly. _If he will, I don’t…_

“Olga?” Edward said, turning his head as she approached, eyes pleading behind his glasses.

“You are asking me if he can have sleepover up the road?” Olga asked. “Why do I get say?”

Edward tilted his head, giving her an excruciating, conspiratorial look. “Because if you’re the one who says yes, Oswald won’t have the nerve to contest it. You’re unassailable.”

“Yay!” Martín shouted, startling Olga as he turned and threw his arms around Ivy.

Edward got to his feet and approached Olga. “Martín’s branching out somewhat,” he whispered.

“_Da_, I can hear,” Olga said, catching the boy’s attention by signing. _Toothbrush?_

_I have one there!_ Martín signed indignantly. _I mean—thanks. Can we go now?_

“Fine,” Edward said, bending to hug his son and kiss his forehead. “Call every day, got it?”

“You betcha, Green Dad,” Ivy said, saluting Edward as Martín dragged her toward the hall.

“Oh dear,” Edward sighed once they were alone. “Oswald still won’t be happy about this.”

“Then distract him,” Olga said, shrugging, giving him the side-eye. “You have not lost touch.”


	13. Holding Up

Bruce wasn’t really paying attention to the movie Jerome had insisted they watch while the other three were busy attending to Five. He’d seen _Labyrinth_ too many times for his own good; it had been a childhood staple for almost everyone he knew.

Jerome had fallen asleep about ten minutes in, and they were somewhere around the thirty-minute mark. Bruce wondered how much rest Jerome had been getting—or, as the case may be, how little. Utterly jarring, to think of Jerome as a creature that _needed_ sleep.

Turning his head against the back of the sofa, Bruce scrutinized Jerome’s features. Even without scarring, he would’ve been discernible from Jeremiah. Everything from the fact Jerome preferred to keep his hair shorter to the freckling of his damaged skin marked him as distinct.

Jerome’s fingers twitched against the stretch of sofa-cushion between them. Something happening on the screen had caused him to react.

“C’mon,” he slurred, shoulder twitching as he spoke. “Nobody’s…_mmm_. It’s gonna be...”

“Gonna be what?” Bruce asked softly, deciding to test a theory. His father had been a sleep-talker who’d respond, and it had been a source of amusement for him in childhood.

“Fun,” Jerome said, perhaps completing the thought without having registered Bruce’s voice.

Bruce realized something with lightning-strike clarity. Jeremiah had loved this film, too. It was so glaringly obvious in light of his maze-building habit that Bruce had to wonder if this film was to blame for a childhood fascination that had never faded.

But if Jeremiah had taken away an interest in labyrinths and mazes, what had _Jerome_ taken?

“What’s gonna be fun?” Bruce whispered, mimicking Jeremiah’s speech cadence as closely as he could. He’d never been any great shakes at impressions, but this wasn’t as complicated.

Jerome’s expression changed, brows knit in familiar, facetious, _disappointed_ exasperation.

“Nuh’mind,” Jerome mumbled, head tilting too far forward. He slumped abruptly toward Bruce.

Bruce set his shoulder against Jerome’s. If he could keep Jerome from toppling over, that was preferable to facing indignity.

Jerome’s head fell on Bruce’s shoulder, an outcome Bruce should’ve foreseen. Instead of shifting closer, Jerome jerked awake.

“You’re—” He sat up straight, giving Bruce a reproachful, venomous look. “Where’s Five?”

“Jeri and the doctors are still with him,” Bruce said, keeping his voice even. “He’s just fine.”

“You and I both know that’s not true,” Jerome replied, drawing his knees up, wrapping his arms around them. “He’s just lasted longer than Strange and the Court intended.”

“I wouldn’t jump the gun, sayin’ stuff like that,” Jeri said, returning with Lee and Lucius just behind her. “J, Five’s askin’ for you. Real cranky.”

Jerome was off the sofa in a blink, already heading for the bedroom. “Five can fill me in?”

“He was lucid for all of what we did,” Lee said, exchanging glances with Lucius. “So…yes.”

Satisfied with Lee’s answer, Jerome quickened his steps and vanished. The bedroom door closed hard, just shy of slamming. Five’s voice, raised and peevish, was briefly audible.

Jeri sat down beside Bruce on the sofa, taking Jerome’s spot. “How are you holdin’ up? Okay?”

Bruce nodded, sitting forward, elbows braced on his knees as he looked to Lee and Lucius. “Well?”

“Frankly, the initial panel indicators are like nothing I’ve ever seen,” Lucius said. “I took around a dozen vials, so I have enough for more extensive testing at the lab. It looks autoimmune, so gene therapy might be possible. I’m afraid you know what that’s going to entail.”

“I’m the closest living match,” Bruce said. “The _only_ one. I’ll donate whatever’s needed.”

“When you take what we’ve learned along with the extensive experimentation records in his file,” Lee said, “the result’s pretty shocking. Using your father’s…DNA, they successfully fertilized two eggs in vitro. One was from Kathryn, and one was from your mother. They had several of each. Those two were implanted in Kathryn with the expectation that only one would survive.”

“Not sure what you’re getting at,” Bruce said. “Clearly, Kathryn did carry one of them to term.”

“Christ, none of what I sent you from work would’ve told…” Lucius cleared his throat. “You haven’t seen Five’s Indian Hill files, have you?”

“No,” Bruce said, “but you have. I didn’t think my eyes on that information would help. What…”

“Five has a genetic anomaly classified as 46,XX/46,XY,” Lee explained. “Chimerism resulting in an intersex variant. He has two full sets of chromosomes. It happened while he was being carried to term. It’s rare, but not unheard of. One of those zygotes was XX, and the other was XY. What otherwise would’ve developed as fraternal twins became a single embryo.”

“He has DNA from both of my parents and Kathryn, then?” was all Bruce managed to say.

“There seem to have been other interventions to ensure he’d look so much like you,” Lucius said apologetically, “which might have been where Strange’s warped expertise came in. That information’s missing or redacted. He’s not an _exact_ match even as it stands. It’s visible in how his eye-color’s slightly off from yours, for example. Even his overall skeletal structure has features more in common with Kathryn’s than yours.”

Bruce was struggling to assimilate so much revelation in so little time. Genetically, Five was both sibling and half-sibling to him. Perhaps more half-sibling than full, but _still_.

“I meant what I said,” he managed. “I’ll do whatever needs to be done to help you heal him. I promised Jerome that I would.”

“Five doesn’t think of himself as a Wayne, in case that’s what you’re worried about,” Jeri said.

“Why would I be worried?” Bruce demanded. “I’m already taking care of him. It’s the least…”

Jeri caught him when he tipped sideways. “Maybe you two oughta get out,” she said sternly.

Bruce heard Lucius say, “I’m sorry for the shock. We can discuss it more once you’re home.”

Lee didn’t say anything, although Bruce could imagine her expression as she and Lucius left.

“I swear to God everybody forgets you’re still kinda just kids,” Jeri murmured, holding him.

Bruce took a shaky breath, determined not to surrender to tears. “It’s always been like that.”

Jeri sighed. “Are you ever sorry you got mixed up in all of this? Involved with the likes of us?”

“It was only ever going to be like that,” Bruce insisted. “Whatever future I had died in that alley. I’ve made choices every step of the way. My future’s different now. It’s not just Jerome who’s my responsibility, not just Five, not just Jeremiah—it’s Gotham. And they _are_ Gotham.”


	14. Holding Court

Tabitha poured Fish more of the gin martini she’d ordered on walking in. After everything Fish had just related about the day’s events, Tabitha decided _she_ might need a drink.

“Monday blues, am I right?” Fish asked, tilting her head at Tabitha. She pushed the glass at her.

“Aw, c’mon, don’t say _that_,” Barbara cautioned sarcastically, counting the till in preparation for that night’s opening shift. “It’s barely six-thirty. Lots more can happen.”

Tabitha swallowed the martini in two gulps, closing her eyes against the dizziness. “Shut up.”

“The night _is_ pretty damn young,” Fish agreed, producing a black-wrapped cigarette from the expensive silver case she perpetually carried. “Not that I’m superstitious, but let’s not jinx it.”

“Too late for that,” Lee said loudly from the back of the lounge, making her way to the bar.

“Don’t tell me something else went wrong,” Tabitha groaned. “We’re hanging by a thread.”

“Nope,” Lee said, reaching across the bar to grab Tabitha’s martini shaker. She set the lid aside and tossed back the remainder. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Jerome is a model boyfriend.”

“Gosh,” said Barbara, with ambivalent sarcasm. “Maybe I should’ve given him a chance.”

“Number one, he wasn’t hitting on you the day you got committed to Arkham,” Tabitha replied. “He was just bored. Number two, _ew_. He was basically our annoying little brother for a while, back when Theo had us all sharing _his_ penthouse.”

“That’s why I’m kidding,” Barbara shot back. “Whoa, easy there. Need another one, Doc?”

Lee set down the Martini shaker and glanced sidelong at Fish. “Uh, sorry. Was that yours?”

“Don’t worry your head about it,” Fish said, pulling more bills from behind her cigarettes, ticking a finger at Barbara before she could comment. “Tonight’s rounds are on me.”

“D’you plan to light that, or just wave it around?” Lee asked, eyeing the cigarette Fish held.

“Depends,” Fish said, gesturing for Tabitha to hand her the bourbon. “Are you gonna bitch?”

“Normally, I wouldn’t,” Lee sighed, resting her forehead in both palms, “but I have a headache.”

Tabitha passed Fish the Jack Daniel’s. She wasn’t about to give up the good stuff, not when she’d lost some top-shelf vodka _last_ time.

“You must’ve just come from checking on poor Five,” Fish said, taking a swig straight from the bottle. “What’s his prognosis? Give it to me straight.”

“Lucius thinks we have a shot at treating him,” Lee said, doing the same when Fish handed her the bottle. “Gene therapy, I guess—provided Bruce’s DNA can be used to repair Five’s.”

“Ooh,” said Barbara, in scandalized delight, “you’ve gotta wonder what J has to say about _that_.”

“Which J?” Tabitha asked, rolling her eyes, snatching the bourbon. “There are two of them, and I’m kinda sure both will have strong opinions. Not positive ones, either.”

“Jerome and Bruce are being downright civil about it,” Lee replied. “Hell must’ve frozen over.”

“I’m willing to bet Jeremiah’s spitting mad,” Fish said. “Didn’t strike me as the brotherly type.”

“Look at you ladies, holding court,” said a voice from the back of the lounge that made Lee hide her face in her arms. “I don’t think you’re givin’ those boys enough credit. Just my two cents.”

“How’d you get in here?” Lee demanded, lifting her head. “Last I checked, you were persona non grata. Spying on your competition is bad form.”

“Money talks to just about any of the muscle around here,” Jeri said, sauntering up to the bar. “I should know. Lost one of my best to that shit. Had to let the kiddos off him.”

“By kiddos,” Fish said, expression cool as she watched Jeri help herself to the bourbon, “I take it you mean Jerome and Five?”

“Yup,” Jeri agreed. “While I hid ’em in the boondocks. I didn’t let on that was the intention, woulda been bad for discipline,” she went on, “but they sure came through.”

“Tell Jerome to kill anything, and it’s a done deal,” Barbara said. “He’ll do it just for fun.”

“No, he’ll do it because he’s counting on an audience,” Tabitha sighed. “Theo knew that.”

“I don’t think he was showin’ off for Five by that point,” said Jeri, shrugging. “I think Five was doin’ it for _him_. Goes both ways, probably.”

“Bet they get off on it like Ozzie and Eddie did when they first met,” Barbara said. “Young love!”

“Jerome doesn’t have eyes for anything else in the world when his princess kills,” Jeri conceded.

“It’s the pet-names that get me!” Lee burst out, slapping the bar. “Princess, precious, pretty—”

“Model boyfriend,” Barbara said flatly, forcing a yawn. “We get it. Jimbo sucked the big one.”

“And you two would know, so let’s table the subject,” Fish griped. “I don’t need to hear it.”

“Hey, Jeri, congrats,” Barbara said sweetly. “The second you adopted that cute freak and his pet clown, you signed on for a world of grief.”

“Husband,” Jeri corrected. “Tied the knot in Vegas, on the run.” She tilted the bottle of bourbon against her lips, finishing it off. “Listen, somebody’s gotta be family to ’em. That brother of Jerome’s sure ain’t.” 

“Guess I’ve gotta agree,” Fish said, rummaging in her clutch for more cash. She left it on the bar with the other sheaf of bills, sliding off her stool. “I’ve also gotta split. Be good.”

Tabitha watched Fish’s retreating figure until she vanished. If any one of them lived so long—Jeri already _had_, she supposed—they’d be lucky to command half as much presence. Actually, Jeri had that going for her, too. She’d run Jerome’s cult, and maybe still did, for all they knew. Celestial Garden was known for catering almost exclusively to that crowd.

“Bedtime for us old broads, I guess,” Jeri said, pretending to yawn. She tossed a twenty down next to Fish’s mess. “Everything gets so _complicated_ when you have kids.”

Barbara stared after Jeri. Her expression was such that Tabitha knew she was hoping security would find cause to shoot.

“I hope you didn’t want any, Tabby,” she retorted, “because that’s _so_ not on my bucket list.”

“Are you fucking kidding?” Tabitha scoffed. “Theo and the Maniax were enough for me.”

“I know you love Silver,” Barbara said, turning gentle. “Where’s your niece now, anyway?”

“Nobody gets to know that,” Tabitha said coldly, snatching the empty bottle. “Not even you.”

Barbara took the bottle out of her hand, slammed it in the trash, and pulled her in for a kiss.

“I don’t need to, baby,” she said, stroking Tabitha’s cheeks. “Gotham’s thicker than blood.”


	15. Grievances

Jeremiah wasn’t stung, exactly, that he had been barred from accompanying Bruce to the penthouse. He’d had no desire to go given Jerome’s presence, but every _reason_ to go because he didn’t want Bruce to face that alone.

Bruce had said he didn’t mind, but his pinched expression had told an entirely different story.

Passing time in the library was easy in Bruce’s absence. Jeremiah hadn’t come close, even in a year and a half of living at Wayne Manor, to examining every last volume. He fully intended to do so, if only for purposes of determining which were of greatest interest to him.

Nearly two hours had passed by the time Jeremiah realized it had begun to grow dark. He set aside one of Thomas’s outdated medical volumes and checked his phone. Bruce hadn’t messaged. Jeremiah rang for Alfred, abruptly perplexed and anxious.

Ever charmingly ahead of the times, Alfred rang Jeremiah’s phone. “Everything all right, sir?”

“Have you heard from Bruce yet?” Jeremiah asked. “He was meant to have returned by now.”

“Dear me, I assumed he’d messaged you,” Alfred said, with startled apology. “He’s upstairs.”

“Since _when_?” Jeremiah demanded, pulse ratcheting up a notch. “I didn’t hear him come in.”

“Bruce was quite clear on wishing to be left alone for a bit,” Alfred continued. “He’s only been back about half an hour, though. Something tells me he’ll come ’round if you go to him.”

Being swift to anger and agitation remained one of the least desirable side-effects of Jeremiah’s transformation, although Jeremiah remained adept at masking both. He rushed up the grand staircase, undoubtedly risking a fall in the process, and found the bedroom door shut.

“Dear heart?” Jeremiah ventured when his soft knock drew no response. “Would it be all right if I came in, or do you still need some time—”

“Please,” Bruce said, sounding groggy enough to have been asleep, or possibly crying. “Do.”

Jeremiah removed his slippers and went inside, unsurprised to find Bruce curled underneath the duvet. He lifted the covers and crawled in beside Bruce, finding Bruce had stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers. Bruce responded to warm touches to his arm, his belly, his hip.

“Should’ve gone with you anyway,” Jeremiah murmured, running his hand down Bruce’s thigh.

Bruce shook his head against the pillow, although he pressed into the touch, sighing. “No.”

“I’ll gut him if he said something terrible to you,” Jeremiah whispered. “You know I will.”

“Jerome?” Bruce asked, twisting around in Jeremiah’s embrace so he could press his face against Jeremiah’s collar. “He didn’t, actually. If anything, he was…sedate, just like a few days ago. It’s more that I…” He clung to Jeremiah. “It’s what I learned.”

Jeremiah nuzzled Bruce’s hair, pressing kisses into the unstyled, fly-away mess. “What is it?”

Bruce heaved a sigh, the kind that meant he was exasperated with himself. “It isn’t even bad.”

“Even good outcomes can have undesirable features,” Jeremiah reassured him. “Tell me?”

“Five is more or less my half-sibling, the way the DNA hashes out,” Bruce said. “Actually, it’s complicated—Lucius will be providing me with full documentation. I’ll let you see it. He has further tests to run first, that’s all.”

Jeremiah closed his eyes. Wouldn’t it just figure that fate hadn’t left either of them unencumbered?

“You don’t have to say anything,” Bruce went on. “I can understand why you wouldn’t.”

“More than that’s upsetting you,” Jeremiah said, glossing over his bitter pride in their shared calamity. “Bruce, I need to _know_ before I can help.”

Bruce lay his warm cheek against Jeremiah’s collarbone. “Lucius says gene therapy is possible.”

Jeremiah considered that statement, knowing that Bruce had stopped shy of the full truth because he trusted Jeremiah to work it out. This was one equation he wouldn’t be keen on solving. Gene therapy entailed repairing faulty DNA, which meant…

“Provided you’ll be the donor, since you’re Five’s closest living relative,” Jeremiah concluded.

“I hope all that’ll be needed is my blood, but...” Bruce clung tighter. “Bone marrow or anything else especially invasive, I just…it’s daunting.”

Aside from holding him, Jeremiah knew there was little he could do. Bruce was forever taking responsibilities beyond his purview. It was one of the many reasons Jeremiah had been lost from the moment they first met, but might just as easily have become a reason to detest him if events had gone differently. Jeremiah pushed the thought out of his mind. Any future in which he and Bruce were at odds wasn’t worth living for.

“Nobody’s making you,” Jeremiah said, realizing how callous it likely made him sound. “Nothing is worth endangering your own health.”

Bruce nodded reluctantly, but didn’t say anything. That was a surefire sign he’d do it anyway.

“Don’t decide anything rash,” Jeremiah pleaded, rubbing Bruce’s back until he relaxed. “At least wait until Lucius has reported all his findings, how’s that? As stubborn as you are, think it through.”

Bruce tightened his hold on Jeremiah’s waist. “The issue with that is, I’ve already promised.”

Jeremiah squeezed his eyes shut again, already too certain where this was going. “Who, Five?”

“No,” Bruce said reluctantly. “Five doesn’t even know that I’ve offered. He’d be averse.”

“Who, then—Lucius?” Jeremiah prodded, attempting to keep his voice even. “It’s not his—”

“Jerome,” Bruce said tautly, rolling away from Jeremiah to stare at the far wall. “I swore.”

“You know that I love you,” Jeremiah said, catching Bruce around the waist in turn, kissing the back of his neck, “but the lengths to which you’ll go even for people you hate...”

“I don’t think I hate them anymore,” Bruce said quietly. “I’m not saying you have to do the same. I understand that your grievances against Jerome may never allow for that.” He laced their fingers together. “I love you, too.”

Jeremiah held Bruce until his breathing slowed, until it was obvious he’d gone back to sleep. Scarcely able to keep his conflicting emotions in check, Jeremiah got up, retrieved a blazer from the closet, and went downstairs.

Alfred caught him in the midst of putting on his shoes and hat. His circumspection was a strange comfort.

“Master Jeremiah,” he said cautiously. “It’ll be suppertime before too long. Do you need driving somewhere?”

“The city,” Jeremiah said. “I’ll make my own way back if it’s easiest. Bruce will sleep a while. He’s exhausted.”

“I’ve just spoken with Lucius,” Alfred said. “Don’t tell me you’re off to do something reckless.”

“Oh, no,” said Jeremiah, reassuringly, as he opened the door. “I just need a drink or several.”


	16. Gravitas

Oswald had gone to the club immediately after lunch, eager for peace and quiet as much as anything else. While the Iceberg Lounge was closed Monday nights to the public, that didn’t necessarily mean _Oswald_ didn’t have cause to be there.

The office was Oswald’s preferred spot for cooling his heels. Heaven knew he felt a measure of self-loathing for having been so easily overruled.

Fish was right, of course. Edward’s and Martín’s supplications notwithstanding, Fish was a source of wisdom whose word Oswald would heed at all costs. An uprising in the Narrows wouldn’t just cost Lee her territory. It would cost Oswald the city.

The night of the blackout—approaching three years past, how time did fly—loomed large in Oswald’s memory as an incident he didn’t care to repeat. Back then, Jerome had at least been apprehended and shipped off to Arkham for recovery.

Oswald noted the darkening skyline and checked the time, unsuccessfully avoiding the thought.

_Recovery_. Even under post-Strange administration, that assumption was dubious. You could stitch someone’s face back on, even keep him sedated enough until there was no danger of it coming off again, but that hadn’t kept Jerome on the inside. His first escape with Barbara and the others had been sheer chance, but his second and third escapes had been orchestrated and executed at his bidding. He was too charismatic.

So charismatic, in fact, that he’d managed to retain Five as his willing consort. That was most telling. Granted, if what Fish had said was true, then _Five_ was the one pulling the emotional strings.

For several minutes after Oswald had closed the ledgers and shut down the laptop, he could only stare at the polished-ebony surface of his desk. He couldn’t fathom how much had happened in relatively little time—and how different Gotham’s underworld landscape looked. 

Turnover was inevitable, but Oswald hadn’t foreseen the generation below him rising so fast.

“Oh, _please_,” Edward sighed, breezing in without warning. “Mope some other time.”

Oswald glanced up as Edward perched on the edge of his desk, fleetingly recalling a year and a half ago. They’d been well on the way to getting the Arkham-breakout situation under control.

“I don’t like change, Ed,” he sighed, leaning into Edward’s kiss. “You know I never have.”

“You don’t like losing control of the situation,” Edward replied, “or sharing control of it.”

“That’s a lie,” Oswald pointed out halfheartedly. “I share with Fish and the ladies just fine.”

Edward grinned, leaning in to whisper in Oswald’s ear. “Fish is the one in charge, just FYI.”

“Let me guess,” Oswald sighed. “Caroline’s waiting outside. You’ve come to whisk me home.”

Shrugging, Edward rose and folded his arms. “That was the idea, but I know I can’t make you.”

“Who’s with Martín?” Oswald asked. “Olga? It can’t be Sveta. She usually takes tonight off.”

“Martín has gone up to the girls’ place for a sleepover,” Edward said. “Olga approved it, too.”

“I would’ve preferred to be consulted, but fine,” Oswald replied. “Go home. I’ll be along.”

“Gabe’s looking awfully bored out there,” Edward warned. “Better not keep him all night.”

Oswald tugged Edward down by his tie, kissing him deeply. “Another hour or two, my love.”

“I’ll make you work for it,” Edward said, already on his way out. “That’s a promise, Oswald.”

“I’ll look forward to it!” Oswald called after him, waiting until several minutes after he’d gone.

Gabriel looked up from his newspaper when Oswald emerged from the office, huffing wearily.

“Callin’ it a night, boss?” he asked, sliding his bar chair out with a screech. “I’ll get the car.”

“We’ll be making one more stop, Gabe,” Oswald replied, leaning on his cane. “The Sirens.”

One of the perks he and his admittedly grudging sister club-owners had granted each other was unrestricted entry and unlimited drinks. The Sirens was where you went if you wanted to either dance all night, _or_ drown in raucous music and be left the hell alone.

Oswald left Gabriel in the security break-room and took the service elevator to the VIP lounge.

The music was slower and more sedate than usual, mesmeric, as Oswald pushed his way through the crowd. As sparsely occupied as the bar was, he wondered what was wrong—until he noticed who was seated in profile at the right corner of it, staring into a whiskey tumbler.

“Ozzie!” Barbara called, beckoning as she took Jeremiah’s empty glass and replaced it with another. “How ’bout you two be sad freaks together?”

Jeremiah drew a compact handgun from within his blazer, pointing it at Oswald without looking.

“I assure you this situation is less than ideal for all parties involved,” he said, with dry gravitas.

“I’m not here to kill you, friend,” Oswald said, pushing Jeremiah’s gun aside as he took the adjacent stool. “I’m here to get moderately intoxicated. So, tell me—what has Bruce done?”

Jeremiah didn’t resist when Barbara took the gun from his hand and tossed it in the trash.

“Too much,” he said morosely. “Not enough. Depends on your point of view, doesn’t it?”

Oswald accepted the uncorked bottle of house red Barbara handed him. “Whose fault is that?”

Jeremiah glared as Oswald patted his arm and took a long swig. “It’s hardly straightforward.”

“I would _never_ have pegged your young man as overly sentimental,” Oswald said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, “until that day he showed up at mine, checking his phone every few seconds because you hadn’t answered his texts.”

Jeremiah’s pale, quick eyes were nothing short of eerie when he was startled. “When was this?”

“The day your underground lair blew sky-high,” Oswald said, enjoying himself. He drank again.

“Didn’t know that’s where he was when it happened,” Jeremiah murmured. “I never asked.”

“That wasn’t the first time he ever set foot on my property, either,” Oswald said, lost in thought.

“The night of the blackout, I knew about,” Jeremiah said, swilling his whiskey. “Bruce told me how Jerome abducted and took him to the Boardwalk Circus, but not before stopping off at yours to ask directions.” He took a drink. “And to think, cut off from the power grid for the first time ever, I was _convinced_ he was on his way to come find me. All that kill-who-you-want nonsense he said on television, right before the lights died.”

“Allow me to offer some advice, Mr. Valeska,” Oswald said, using the bottle to point at him. “You and Jerome have more in common than ever. All’s finally fair in love and war. Let it be.”


	17. Memory Stick

Five hovered in the bedroom doorway, waving, watching as Jerome showed Jeri out. Actually, she hadn’t even come inside—just greeted Jerome and handed him a large brown paper bag.

“I’m not gonna hang around since Miss Thing needs his rest,” she said, returning Five’s wave as she pressed the bag to Jerome’s chest. “Be good while he’s getting better, you hear?”

“As if I’d risk it,” Jerome scoffed, starting to close the door. “GCPD holding cells are no better than the, uh, accommodations at Arkham.”

Jeri looked like she wanted to hug Jerome, but didn’t. “Call if you need me,” she said, and left.

Five made a dash for the bed when Jerome turned and saw him standing there. He’d had a long month and a half in and out of the clinic that Bruce had spent the past year building for Lee in the Narrows. The facility was going to be a full-service hospital eventually.

“Somebody’s starting to get penthouse fever,” Jerome said, following as Five bounced back onto the mattress. He sat down on it, too, as Five settled back under the covers. “We got stuff.”

“I want to see,” Five said, propping himself against the pillows before prodding the paper bag.

Jerome ceremoniously unrolled the top, reaching inside as if performing a rabbit-and-hat trick.

“This one has your name on it,” he said, producing a flat object in blue snowflake giftwrap. Christmas was a week away, so that wasn’t shocking.

Five grabbed it and tore off the paper. Jeri had done exactly as he’d asked with the marriage certificate.

“Weird, isn’t it,” Five murmured, running his fingertips down one side of the frame, “to see your name like that? When you never thought…”

“Yeah,” Jerome said, kissing Five’s cheek as he took the frame and set it on the nightstand.

“I didn’t think I’d even be alive to think about it,” Five said, watching Jerome remove the next thing from the bag, which was a plate of cling-filmed cookies. There was a sticker-tag on top, which read—_To: J + 5 / From: Harley + Maison d’Ivy / SAVE ONE 4 SANTA_ 🙂 🙂 🙂

“Shame my brother found her first,” Jerome said, lips twisting in concentration as he picked back the layers of cling-film. He stared at the cookies for half a minute before handing Five a ginger snap, sticking a chocolate chip one in his mouth, and picking the snickerdoodles out one by one. He tossed those in the bedside wastebasket without explanation. “All that wasted potential.”

“Jeri mentioned last time she visited that the girls wanna see us,” Five said with his mouth full.

Jerome hummed noncommittally, studying the third and final object he drew from the bag. It was a memory stick in a small Ziploc. The note slipped inside with it was in Jeri’s handwriting. _This came with the cookies_, it read. _Surveillance was running the night Bruce & Co. raided that hideout and got J sent back to Arkham. Firefly said you’d want to see._

Prickling with excitement, Five snatched the Ziploc from Jerome and took out the memory stick.

“Get one of the laptops,” he said, uncapping it, already imagining what it held. “Now. _Please_.”

“You had me at _now_,” Jerome said, letting the paper bag fall on the floor as he rose to fetch what Five had requested from the living room. He came back with the machine Five had claimed as his own, a practically unused MacBook, already open and booting up.

“Come here,” Five said, making space for Jerome to sit. He promptly climbed in Jerome’s lap once he’d situated himself, back against Jerome’s chest. Setting the computer in his own lap, Five jammed the memory stick into one of the two USB ports. “This is gonna be good.”

“As you wish,” Jerome agreed, watching raptly over Five’s shoulder as the footage began to play.

Five wanted to harp on Jerome’s sentimental use of the _Princess Bride_ reference, but they were both too intent on eating cookies as they watched.

The recording showed, side on and at a downward angle, Edward Nygma throwing a knife that caught Hugo Strange in the stomach. Ivy Pepper rushed into the frame, pushing the staggering Strange backwards into an armchair. He pulled the knife out of himself with one shaking hand.

Ivy unscrewed something from her necklace, grabbed Strange by the chin, and passed the object beneath his nose as she spoke. The footage had no sound, but her fury at Strange’s brief responses was palpable. She dropped whatever she’d used to extract Strange’s confession, yanked the knife out of Strange’s hand, and drove it into his neck with a vicious twist.

“I like her,” Five said soberly, pointing at Ivy. “She was the other girl in the alley when Selina handed me money, and on the rooftop when…” He quieted. “One of the other subjects from Indian Hill could age people just by touching them. So that’s why she’s…”

Jerome nodded, kissing Five’s temple softly, letting Five rewind the footage to watch it again.

“That’s one way I might have done it,” Five said, taking the computer out of his lap, setting it aside. He twisted around in Jerome’s embrace, pressing against him as his pulse quickened. “The knife didn’t stay in his belly long enough, though. I would’ve forced it back in, to the hilt, and _then_ stuck it in his neck. What about you?”

Making a low, desperate noise, Jerome nipped at Five’s earlobe. “You up to this, precious?”

“_Yes_,” Five panted, breathless at how much he’d missed the feeling. “Tell me how,” he murmured, shivering at the nudge of Jerome’s damp, eager cock against his thigh. He reached down and played with it until Jerome groaned in his ear.

“I’d do it however, _ha_—however you told me to,” Jerome gasped, pushing into Five’s touch.

“What if I told you,” Five replied, squirming as Jerome palmed him in turn, “to surprise me?”

With clumsy haste, Jerome let go of Five, stripping out of his robe and underwear. He helped Five out of his sleepwear, too, breathing harshly as Five lay back with his legs invitingly spread. Jerome swallowed, settling just so they could be close.

“Princess, I’d carve an entire list of his sins against you—and then make sure he died wearing a smile.”

“Carve them _where_?” Five whispered. He was close, close as he’d been the first time he ever held Jerome like this.

“Anywhere I could find room,” Jerome promised, feverishly kissing Five’s neck. “I’d use his entrails to spell out some of ’em—_fuck_,” he whined, grinding against Five as he came.

There was nothing different about orgasm now, except that Five was well enough to want it, well enough to _enjoy_ it. He loved the intensity when Jerome pinned him—something about the pressure, given how differently he experienced sensation.

“Jerome,” Five sobbed, shaking and shaking with it, “I love you, I _missed_ you, I—”

“_Shhh_,” Jerome whispered, pressing his wet cheek against Five’s. “You didn’t go away.”

“I know,” Five whispered back, kissing Jerome’s flushed skin, “but I almost did. I hate that.”

“Baby boy,” Jerome said, “baby girl, my _pretty_ baby. I’m never gonna leave you, either.”


	18. Makes Two

Jerome found leaving Five alone after a shared shower difficult, all his heat-flushed skin and scattering of beautiful scars to kiss. He dressed in the spare bedroom, one of the flawlessly-tailored suits that Jeri had delivered on Bruce’s behalf.

Grey with a plaid waistcoat, too tame until Jerome tried the canary-yellow shirt with it. He turned up his collar and slung a tie around his neck.

Five would be cross if Jerome finished the job. Anything to keep his princess happy, today of all days. They had a party to attend.

Jerome wandered back to the bedroom they’d been sharing in their three months of occupancy, peering around the door-frame.

Five was in front of the full-length mirror, skirt of the black dress he’d first modeled for Jeri hiked up far enough to expose the _JV_ scar on his abdomen. Jerome absent-mindedly pressed his palm to the equivalently-placed _5_ beneath his shirt.

Running his fingers over the letters as Jerome approached, Five said, “I realized something.”

“Yeah, precious?” Jerome asked, fastening the row of buttons down Five’s back. “What’s that?”

“V isn’t just Valeska,” said Five, with hushed excitement. “It’s also Roman numeral five.”

_JV_, Jerome thought, closing his eyes. Not just his initials, then. It was both of them.

“I could put a J in front of your 5,” Five teased, breaking Jerome’s reverie. “We’d match.”

“I like it the way it is,” Jerome insisted, swaying Five in front of the mirror until he let his skirt drop, the swish of it satisfying. “You wanna take care of this?” he asked, flipping one end of his tie over Five’s shoulder. “I’ll help with your stockings.”

“Fishnets or the garter belt,” Five said under his breath, as he turned and got down to business on tying a killer half-Windsor. “I can’t decide.”

“Baby, it’s cold outside,” Jerome said, running his palms over Five’s smooth cheeks, admiring the rare dashes of shimmering blush beneath Five’s smoky eyes. “How ’bout your favorite socks and those fleece-lined leggings. Maybe your red boots.”

Five pursed his oxblood-painted lips and smiled, finishing off the knot. “That’s pretty informal.”

“I don’t give a fuck what they’ll think,” Jerome said conspiratorially, “and neither should you.”

“Good,” Five said, sounding relieved as he buttoned Jerome’s waistcoat, “because I can’t walk in those heels yet. I’m not sure…” He patted his handiwork, troubled. “I don’t like them.”

“They’re not punk enough for you,” Jerome said, sliding his arms around Five’s waist, tugging the huge satin bow at the small of Five’s back. He hadn’t noticed the Ladysmith tucked there, but he cackled in approval.

“I’m not taking any chances,” Five said, eyes grave and unblinking. “Neither should you.”

“Not sure how I’m gonna get the shotgun past security,” Jerome said, tugging Five over to the bed. “Sit.”

While Jerome put Five’s _I IDENTIFY AS A BADASS_ socks on his feet and helped him into the leggings, Five lapsed into pensive silence. Jerome leaned forward and kissed Five’s collarbone—that was code for not needing to say anything.

“Why is it so complicated,” Five muttered under his breath, fretfully straightening out his skirt.

“What, the latest lab results?” Jerome asked. “I respect Fox for wanting to tell you in person.”

“No, it’s not that,” Five sighed, rearranging Jerome’s product-laced hair. “It’s just, I don’t…”

“Anything you wanna tell me,” Jerome said, pressing their foreheads together, “I’m all ears.”

“I just don’t know what I am,” Five whispered helplessly. “I don’t want to have to choose.”

Jerome brushed away Five’s tears before they could do his make-up too much damage. “You can be anything you want. _Everything_.”

“Your everything?” Five asked hopefully, spinning the in-joke so subtly it was admirable.

“You got it, sweet pea,” Jerome said kissing him softly on the mouth. “I’m crazy for you.”

“My crazy,” Five said, pressing his index finger to the tip of Jerome’s nose, and then smiled. “Did you wear your socks, too?”

Jerome rose, sat beside him on the mattress, and propped his left foot on his right knee.

“You bet I did,” he replied, tugging his pant-leg up so Five could tell he hadn’t forgotten to put on his _RINGMASTER OF THE SHITSHOW_ pair.

Jerome decided that wrapping the shotgun in his blazer was the best way to get it downstairs. Five’s long black coat made the handgun at the small of his back a non-issue, and then there was what he’d tucked in his Docs on their way out the door. Their ride was waiting.

“Family,” Five said, running his fingers over the gilt-embossed invitation. “That definitely means the girls.”

“And the butler, and Foxy,” Jerome reminded him. “We won’t be alone with _those two_.”

“I wish I had that knife,” Five sighed. “The nice one I showed you online. It’s expensive.”

“I’ll just have to tell Brucie that’s what we want for Christmas,” Jerome said reassuringly.

“Bruce is Jewish,” Five replied, frowning adorably. “Hanukkah’s been over for two weeks.”

“Yeah, but we’re not,” Jerome pointed out, “and it’s Christmas Day. I can be real persuasive.”

Five nodded and leaned into Jerome’s side, closing his eyes to doze the remainder of the ride.

Bruce and Alfred were waiting at the front gate when the driver left them there. Beyond them, the library-window curtains stirred. That flash of pale eyes meant Jeremiah was watching.

“You can’t bring that in,” Bruce said, nodding at the shotgun propped over Jerome’s shoulder.

“What?” Jerome asked, hoping his feigned bewilderment was convincing. “I brought it along in case shooting clay pigeons is on the agenda. Isn’t that what rich folks _do_?”

Alfred grasped the shotgun’s barrel and yanked it away from Jerome. “Not these ones, I’m afraid.”

“Five,” Bruce sighed, eyeing him warily up and down, “I don’t want to have to confiscate—”

“You’re a buzz-kill,” Five said, but he drew the Ladysmith and pulled the knives from his boots.

Alfred accepted those without comment, and then spun on his heel. “Right this way, you lot.”

Jerome waited until Bruce turned and followed Alfred. He bowed to Five, offering his hand.

Five took it, prim and pleased, a vision in the winter sun. “You’re staring,” he said. “I like it.”

“That makes two of us, precious,” said Jerome, winking, and led him toward what waited inside.


End file.
